


Surface-to-Air Missile

by thatsakitkat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Bottom Dean, Crack Treated Seriously, Dean Swears, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fantastic Sexism, Kinky, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Dean, Past Prostitution, Rimming, Sam Being an Asshole, Slut Shaming, Top Sam, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:38:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsakitkat/pseuds/thatsakitkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's been looking forward to reaching home base with Sam. However, the size of his brother's equipment throws him a curveball.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeletncloset (alexa_dean)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/gifts), [Saltandburnboys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saltandburnboys/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Surface-to-Air Missile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7203686) by [IvySnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvySnow/pseuds/IvySnow)



> for the abo_bb! Can also read on livejournal: [here](http://idontwant-candy.livejournal.com/25253.html)
> 
> art by: [lylithj2](http://lylithj2.livejournal.com/55822.html)
> 
> tumblr: [thatsakitkat](http://thatsakitkat.tumblr.com/)

“Missed you,” Sam’s saying between fever hot kisses, caging Dean against their bedroom wall with his body, pawing restlessly at him. “Gone a long time.”  
  
With the hungry almost-keens coming from Sam’s throat, Dean’s reminded of a dog overjoyed to see their owner after an hour-long trip to the store, but he doesn’t say that out loud. Would ruin the moment. Instead, he parts his lips for Sam’s warm tongue (tastes like fucking skittles; Dean knew Sam couldn’t be trusted to not raid his stash, the sugar-deprived freak) and tilts his chin up a little more into the kiss and tries to remember when Sam got taller than him.  
  
But yeah, Dean’s missed him too. But two wendigos were a little more than Dad could handle, so Dean had went with, left Sam to his own devices. “What’d you do all week?” Dean asks when his brother gets tired of his lips and starts dragging teeth over his chin instead.  
  
“Thought about you,” the six and a half foot tower of sap answers, earnest as a little girl selling lemonade. “A lot,” he admits in what he probably thinks is a sexy tone, would be if Sam’s voice didn’t still crack on vowels.  
  
“Ate my skittles.”  
  
Sam doesn’t deny it. Cheeky bastard pokes his tongue out to show off its weird kaleidoscope of colors then licks up Dean’s cheek with it.  
  
Dog. Definitely a dog.  
  
Sam then brushes his nose on the outside of Dean’s, turns his head to slide their cheeks together, till their ears brush, then repeats on the other side, enthusiastically spreading his scent. Dean sighs and puts his nose in his neck, inhaling curiously, and whoa—Sam is turned _on_.  
  
And his hand is snaking down Dean’s back. “Mm,” Sam says into his hair, and Dean feels the hot fall of his other hand come to rest on the nape of his neck, holding Dean’s face into his shoulder. He can really only blink as Sam’s fingers touch over the strip of bare skin between the top of his jeans and shirt; hot, tingling dashes of pleasure on the sensitive skin. He breathes in Sam’s alpha-scent, skin teeming in anticipation when he feels Sam tuck his fingers under his jeans.  
  
Haven’t got this far yet. Shit, all they’ve really done is make out a few times. And one time Sam reached over while Dean was driving and almost caused Dean a _big, bloody death_ to go with his _little_.  
  
“Dad gone?” Sam asks, light as the tickle of his hair on Dean’s skin, right as he’s ghosting his fingertips just at the beginning of Dean’s cleft.  
  
So Dean doesn’t think much of it, not now, when moving his lips feels like trying to breathe water. He just gets out, “You know he never stays long,” words rushing together when Sam feels further down.  
  
Sam says, “Good,” delving three fingers, tucked tight, down in; slip-sliding in Dean’s slick, point of his chin dug into Dean’s shoulder now so he can look down Dean’s back. Dean’s fingers bunch his shirt as they claw in, opening his mouth against Sam’s skin. No one’s ever touched him there besides himself, and he’s glad Sam’s the first really, with those nice, long fingers squaring out towards the nails. Dean wants them in—  
  
“Mm, Dean, so wet,” Sam says, and he really does sound sexy now, or maybe Dean’s sunk too deep in his scent. “Bet I could just slip my dick right in there.” He feels over Dean’s hole, fingerpads catching and pressing, then easing up and who the fuck taught Sam to tease?  
  
Dean spreads his sock-feet on the carpet and lets himself sort of fall against Sam, back curving in. Sam’s arm tightens around his flank, livewire from elbow to his hand stuck in Dean’s jeans like a dirty secret.  
  
It’s only the privacy of their room: quiet, small, dim with walls and floors the color of a moody sky. Only them. Dean could bring his brother down to the hush grey carpet and sling his jeans low and hold Sam’s biceps for the _bounce-bounce-bounce_ of a good fuck. That’s how Dean’s pictured it anyway. He wants to watch the sleek lines of Sam’s face bend and break.  
  
Sam makes a sound, a readying inhale, and Dean’s toes splay within the confines of his socks as Sam tips over the pressure Dean’s body uses to keep him out. And Sam’s fingers, two maybe, wriggle and worm inside— _going, going_ —Dean lifts up on his heels a bit, like Sam’s hooked him in the gills, like he’s caught on those fingers and helpless.  
  
Sam’s fingers are long; they tap deep, untouched places, dark twangs echoing in Dean’s bones. Feels alien, feels like a kneejerk _don’t_ needs to spark on his lips, reflexive as the eye shutting when its lashes are touched.  
  
Dean mouths Sam’s shirt collar and gets the thickest piece in his teeth, polyester and fabric softener coiling over his taste buds. His nipples are pushpins, stabbing into Sam’s own chest. His groin is hot weight between his legs, dick fighting his zipper.  
  
Sam massages his neck, kneading his fingers in and out, breath gusty. He grips Dean tighter and rocks his fingers, pushing a groan from Dean’s throat and sweat from his brow. Over and over again until one of Dean’s sounds comes out shaky then Sam lets his neck go to kiss him, tucking his fingers in deep.  
  
Dean thinks today should be the day they fuck. Perfectly overcast and nondescript, they cleaned their room last week so the carpet’s completely free, and if they move to the bed well, it’s already messy, and slashes of white might look damn decadent on their black Batman covers.  
  
He presses his hips into Sam’s to signal this desire somehow, hoping he’s returning Sam’s _I-wanna-fuck_ pheromones, but stills when their crotches meet, opening his eyes.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
Dean has to press in again to make sure, but _yeah_ , that’s definitely a dick hanging halfway down Sam’s thigh, and Jesus fucking _Christ_ —  
  
“Don’t s’pose that’s a package of skittles in your pocket,” he says anyway and feels a bit like he’s baiting the bull. He looks up at Sam and Sam looks down at him, confusion wrinkling his forehead.  
  
“No,” Sam says after a moment of clear inner debate on what the fuck Dean wants him to say. “That’s my dick.”  
  
“I thought so.” He pulls their bodies away, Sam’s fingers slipping from him abruptly, and that doesn’t feel good, that empty feeling that follows. But, there are logistics to consider here.  
  
Dean drops his eyes to Sam’s jeans, and follows the bulge held to Sam’s inner thigh, reaches to push the jeans in a bit more to get a better outline... And when the fuck did his _little_ brother bring home a python and let it live in his pants? Seriously, Dean hopes nothing’s showing in his face, but the thing looks fucking _obscene_. Puts Dean’s favorite alpha porn-star to fucking shame.  
  
Dean prods at it entirely too long, poking the snake and watching it twitch, curling his fingers around it as much as the jeans’ll let him and yeah, thick around as a beer can... or a keg.  
  
Dean hasn’t felt this kind of half-fear, half-interest since him and Sam found that foot-long earthworm at Bobby’s. And that was ten years ago.  
  
“Dean, I mean that feels fantastic and all, but... what’re you doing?”  
  
 _Bet I could just slip my dick right in there_.  
  
 _Bet you could fuckin’ not_. Dean’s already revising his plans. There won’t be any fucking today. Or any time soon.  
  
“I’m touching your dick.” _Be happy about that, goddamit_.  
  
“Looks more like you’re about to put it under a microscope,” Sam says.  
  
 _Like you would need a microscope for this thing_ , Dean thinks. He squeezes around the heft of it. “M’sorry Sam, it’s just that, you’re a big boy, aren’t ya?”  
  
Sam inhales and stands up straighter and Dean hears something like a pleased giggle stop short. Bitch.  
  
He just made Sammy’s year.  
  
“Like it?”  
  
“Oh yeah.” _Chop half a foot off it and I’ll_ love _it_. Dean goes for Sam’s fly, because he has to see this fucking monster in the flesh. He unzips Sam’s jeans and with no meager amount of trepidation reaches in where it’s stifling hot, wraps his fingers around the base of Sam’s dick (his fingers don’t touch, _they don’t fucking touch_ —Christ on a cracker) and has to heave that fucking thing up and through the split.  
  
It’s wilting a bit, not even fully erect yet, ever stiffening under Dean’s touch and fucking A, Dean hopes Sam’s a show-er.  
  
“Wow,” is kind of all he can say. He’s beginning to think that start of a six pack Sam’s got didn’t even require crunches; must be a real workout just walking around with this thing between his legs. He keeps Sam in the tunnel of his fist and strokes to the tip, pulling a wavery sigh from Sam’s lips, and Dean wonders how much he comes when he does, a damn bucket’s worth?  
  
“Dean,” Sam says after a gasp when Dean swipes the glossy precome at the head of Sam’s dick, “are you okay? You look kinda pale.”  
  
Dean says he’s okay, keeping his hand on Sam’s cock as it grows fully erect, and this thing is never gonna fit up his ass, is it? Dean growls in frustration, ignoring the odd look Sam gives him. Why’d his brother have to go and get blessed by a fucking fertility god? Dean’s been looking forward to Sam fucking him for months and now—  
  
“Today?” Sam’s asking, voice high. “Dean, today, right?”  
  
“Today what?” Dean tightens his fist and strokes faster. Maybe he can get Sam off like this and Sam’ll fall asleep so Dean can check the internet for info on how the hell to handle this.  
  
“I can fuck you today, right?”  
  
 _No you can’t, you can’t_ ever, Dean thinks, hand freezing in its motion. He licks his lips and looks at Sam’s reddened, hopeful face. Hard to think that face is attached to the monster in Dean’s fingers. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” is the only thing Dean can come up with.  
  
Sam shakes his head. “What?” He reaches into his pocket. “Dad’s out, Dean, and I got some of these at the store the other day.” And the fucker shows Dean _several_ condom packets, held between his fingers like a magic coin trick.  
  
“I just—don’t think I’m ready.” He sounds like a chick, but it’s literally saving his ass right now. Dean could care less.  
  
Sam’s heated lion-eyes jump between his, as if he thinks Dean’s lying to him. “Not ready,” he says, mouth flicking in that pissy way it does, “Okay,” puts the condoms back in his pocket and starts glaring a hole through Dean’s chest.  
  
Dean sighs, Sam’s angerscent sharp in his nose. “Look,” he entreats, “how ‘bout I suck you off, huh? Anybody ever sucked your cock?”  
  
Sam shifts his shoulders. “No,” he admits.  
  
“Sammy boy, you are in for a treat,” Dean chuckles, and moves Sam so he’s against the wall instead.  
  
“Have you ever done this?” Sam asks, as Dean sinks to his knees. It’s asked lightly enough, but Dean knows alphas can get troubled about shit like that, thinking they gotta be the first at everything, especially when it comes to omegas’ holes.  
  
Dean did suck a few guys in fluorescent-lit bathrooms for some extra cash when he was younger, and Sam didn’t know then and he doesn’t need to know now, so he says, “Just enjoy.”  
  
He pets Sam’s cock a little, chuckles when he realizes he can probably fit more down his throat than he can up his ass. He cups Sam’s cock around the thick base and angles the head so it rests just in the cradle of his mouth, presses his tongue-tip beneath the lip and traces it in a half-circle.  
  
“Ah, Dean!” Sam reaches for Dean’s hair and braces the other hand on the wall; hips jumping forward but that’s okay; Dean seals his lips over his teeth and lets Sam in, over his taste buds, breathes through his nose. He gives a good hard suck then pulls off so he can rub the head over his mouth, using Sam’s precome like lip gloss.  
  
“Jesus Christ Dean, your lips—”  
  
Dean chuckles a little; something to that effect’s been said every time he’s been on his knees. He cups his tongue under Sam’s dick and lets it slide back into his mouth, jaw already aching but he takes it, more and more until it’s nestled into his tonsils and Sam sounds like he’s dying, gripping his hair tight, letting it go, gripping it tight.  
  
Easy to make a man come undone like this. Dean enjoys it, even when he wasn’t supposed to; likes the high sounds he can push from throats and the control inherent in the act, making alphas go weak in the knees.  
  
He lets Sam into his throat, resisting the urge to clench his teeth and choke. He swallows instead, hears the dull thud as Sam bangs his head back into the wall, grunting a shocked, “Unh.”  
  
Dean’s only halfway and an inch down. He inhales through his nose then gets another, willing his throat to open around it. Starts burning then, and he stops, presses around the root of Sam’s cock in intermittent squeezes and makes Sam choke on his own spit.  
  
Dean’s all for just swallowing his come down, but as Sam’s knot plumps under his fingers, his brother hikes his hips back and his cock out of Dean’s mouth and starts painting his face. Dean just _barely_ manages to shut his eyes in time before warm ropes hit his eyebrows, cheeks, parted lips and chin.  
  
Dean splutters while Sam makes happy noises that sound like satisfaction and pure, gold medal victory, wiping his cock around in the mess, smearing it like lotion on Dean’s face.  
  
Dean sits on his haunches, out of reach of that damn thing, and very calmly wipes a hand from his forehead to his chin and feels like he’s wiping off a damn white mask with how much there is. That little _shit_.  
  
His left eye is starting to sting. Sting bad.  
  
  
  
“Okay,” Sam huffs, “I’m sorry I got come in your eye, but it’s not like I _meant_ to—”  
  
“Yeah well, warn a man before you give him a facial!” Dean barks, cupping his hands together for more water. He splashes his face then picks at his eyelashes, pulling clumps of jizz from the strands. Another splash, to get out the come around his hairline, then he looks in the mirror. His left eye is still woefully threaded with red.  
  
“What are we gonna tell Dad huh?” Dean demands, rounding on Sam in the doorway.  
  
Sam looks at him and folds his lips in, shaking slightly. The bitch is trying not to laugh.  
  
“Oh so this is funny now huh? You coulda blinded me, you know that?”  
  
A snort escapes then Sam loses it, hunching over himself and laughing so hard he makes no sound at all. After several moments of staring indignantly, Dean grumbles and goes to move past him.  
  
But Sam straightens to catch Dean around the waist, playfully swinging Dean against him.  
  
“Sorry,” Sam giggles behind Dean’s ear, “really am.” Sam snickers a little more, then inhales and sighs heated breath on Dean’s skin. “M’sorry for laughing.” He kisses Dean’s ear then drops his nose in Dean’s neck.  
  
“Yeah yeah, get offa me.” Dean tries to walk forward out of Sam’s clutch, but only gets eased back in, Sam’s arm banded around his ribs, Sam’s stiffening dick at his lower back.  
  
Dean loves him, but sometimes Sam gets like this, where he doesn’t want to let Dean go. Been that way since he was a kid; demanding piggyback rides, hugging Dean around the waist while he was trying to cook them dinner, climbing into Dean’s bed when he had a nightmare. Dean couldn’t even hug their father without Sam picking at his shirt and asking _me now, me now, Dean_?  
  
Sam holds him tight to his chest and drags the point of his nose up Dean’s neck, scenting. He parts his lips near Dean’s ear. “When can I be inside you?” he asks hotly.  
  
Dean is suddenly hyperaware of Sam’s dick at his back. “Sammy, like I said, gotta be ready. Don’t wanna rush into this.”  
  
Sam makes a discontent noise. “When?”  
  
 _When they invent dick-shrinking serum_ , Dean thinks. Though he’s not completely averse to trying it, he really needs to do some research. Some measurements. Weigh the pleasure he might feel to the pain he will feel.  
  
“A couple weeks,” he says, since Sam wants a time so bad.  
  
“ _Weeks_?”  
  
“Not like it’s gonna fall off in the meantime, Christ, Sam!” Dean grips Sam’s wrists and pulls them away. He walks on their bedroom carpet to their bed and collapses into the Batman covers, throws an arm over his eyes.  
  
Sam joins him when Dean’s on the cusp of oblivion, jostling Dean with his weight. His scent is light, affectionate, and he wraps an arm over Dean and his stupid hair gets in Dean’s mouth. Dean spits it out and grumbles ineffectually because Sam just wriggles closer.  
  
\--  
  
Dad’s back for breakfast the next morning. Before heading downstairs, Dean uses up every last bit of hot water and comes out dripping to smugly inform Sam that the shower’s all his, but Sam's headed down without him. Growling to himself, Dean pushes his wet hair off his forehead and yanks on a pair of jeans and a thermal, follows him down.  
  
Sam and Dad are at the dining table, Sam still in his ThunderCats pajama pants and wifebeater, hair flying in all directions. At least Dean looks more presentable. Besides his eye that is, which is still possessed by Sauron.  
  
“Made you a bowl,” Sam says, as if he put together a four course meal rather than pour stale cereal and milk into a dish.  
  
“Thanks,” Dean says stiffly, takes a seat and keeps his eyes on the bowl as to not draw attention to his red eye.  
  
Of course, nothing escapes John Winchester. Dad starts in saying, “You two keeping out of trouble,” and cuts himself off abruptly.  
  
Dean keeps eating as he feels Dad peer at him. “Dean, what’d you do to your eye?”  
  
Sam chokes on his spoon and his Lucky Charms. He leans over the table and hacks until the spoon clangs back into the bowl.  
  
“Jesus, Sammy, you gotta be careful.” Dad slaps Sam’s back while he coughs and splutters.  
  
Sam’s teary eyes are on Dean’s, who stares back evenly. Serves him right.  
  
“Accidentally poked it last night,” Dean says, calmly eating his cereal as another round of coughs overtake his brother. “You gonna need the Heimlich, Sammy?”  
  
“No,” Sam hoarses between coughs, reaching for his glass of milk when Dad tells him to try and drink something. Sam manages some milk down and settles, breathing deep and glaring at Dean.  
  
Dean narrows his eyes at him but starts eating again when he’s aware of Dad looking between them.  
  
Dad sighs after a moment, cracking the tension. “You boys staying out of trouble?”  
  
“Yessir,” Dean says with gusto. _Only trouble here is that thing in Sam’s pants_.  
  
“How ‘bout PT? That done?”  
  
“No sir,” Dean answers over Sam’s “Yessir,” then they’re glaring at each other all over again.  
  
Another lengthy sigh comes from Dad. “Dean, yes or no?”  
  
“No,” Dean replies emphatically and Sam scoffs and says something under his breath.  
  
“Takin’ a run after we get done eating.”  
  
“All right, but Dean, till that eye clears up you’re benched. I’m gonna be in Vancouver the rest of the week, you stay back and keep Sam company.”  
  
“Vancouver... with the werewolves?” Dean’s face falls. “Oh man, c’mon Dad, I can see fine—”  
  
“Dean, end of discussion,” Dad says, rubs his eyes. He finishes up his beer. “I’m gonna hit the hay and move out tonight. Dean, you make sure you and Sam get that run in.”  
  
“Yessir,” Dean says as Dad leaves the table, ignoring how Sam silently mocks his words.  
  
“What happened to your eye, Dean?” Sam smirks when Dad’s out of earshot and Dean tries to resist the urge to throw himself across the table and throttle his brother.  
  
\--  
  
“You ever think, maybe we should tell Dad?” Sam wonders between panted breaths, keeping a good pace beside Dean.  
  
“You feel free,” Dean grunts, sweat stinging into his bad eye.  
  
“Kinda comes with the territory, doesn’t it? A and O siblings—nature finding a way. I mean shit, we sleep in the same room, same bed, he’s gotta expect something.”  
  
“Yeah well, like I said, you feel free.” Dean relaxes more into his run and starts breathing evenly. They pass the yellow house; another block to go and then they turn back for the return trip.  
  
“Don’t see why we gotta broadcast it,” he adds a few houses later amidst their unified sneaker-thuds and sweat-drenched shirts and water creeping out onto the cement from a man hosing off his blue Ford. Dean pens himself a mental note to wash the Impala later. Good weather for it.  
  
“Don’t see why we gotta keep it a secret,” Sam counters, catching Dean’s hand for a moment. “Just weird I can do this out here but not in our house.”  
  
“Don’t think you can do it out here either,” Dean pants, snatching his hand away. “Damn Sam. S’all it is? You just wanna hold my hand all day?”  
  
“Well, other things too.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes and picks up the pace. “Dad says if you can have a conversation you’re not working hard enough.”  
  
“You’re the one who’s been yakking my ear off,” Sam laughs, exploding forward till there’s ten feet between them, leaving Dean staring at his white shirt and sweat-black hair.  
  
“Doesn’t mean nothin’!” Dean shouts at him, pushing harder even though he knows he can’t beat Sam, pounding over the pavement till his teeth feel loose in their gums. “Gazelles run faster than lions!”  
  
Sam and his stupid giraffe legs round the shaded cul-de-sac way before Dean. Dean watches him swoop into the sun again and a dog from a house nearby bounds into Sam’s return path, barking. Dean’s gait snags, worried for half a second because the retriever is huge, but Sam, hare to Dean’s tortoise, immediately kneels down and starts enthusiastically petting it.  
  
Stupid alphas and their stupid affinity for dogs. Last dog Dean tried to get friendly with almost tore out his Achilles.  
  
When Dean catches up to Sam, his legs are like jelly anyway; he leans over himself and catches his breath. Sam’s scratching at the dog’s stomach, babbling incessantly. “He looks just like Bonesy!” Sam finally enunciates.  
  
“Bonesy?” Dean huffs. He sees the owner’s front door open in his peripheral and straightens.  
  
Dean knows this guy—Mr. Melcher, a beta in his twilight years with eerie, blue eyes too young in his leathery face.  
  
Melcher steps off the porch and gives a shrill whistle. “Zeus!”  
  
Zeus rolls onto his feet and trots back to his owner, and Sam picks himself off the pavement looking guilty. Dean touches his wrist in a silent gesture to get moving; doesn’t like Mr. Melcher. Had to deal with the man a few years ago when Dad sent him over to ask if he could borrow his mower.  
  
“Sorry sir,” Sam says to Melcher’s puckered expression. “Zeus ran out to me. I thought it was okay to pet him a little—”  
  
“Boy,” Melcher spits, “next time you just keep on runnin’. Don’t appreciate savages like you comin’ around my property, much less tryin’ to steal my dog.”  
  
Red blooms hard in Sam’s cheeks. “I wasn’t—”  
  
“Like hell you wasn’t, you devil-eyes always think you got a right to take whatever’s not nailed down. Your kind oughta all be locked up.”  
  
Jesus Christ, it’s 50s shit, what Melcher is saying. Dean’s only heard words like that in old movies. Sam looks away, jaw muscle flexing, breathing harshly through his nose. Looks a hair away from dropping his fangs and justifying the man’s prejudices, so Dean grips his elbow and says to Mr. Melcher, “Sorry for bothering you sir. Won’t happen again.”  
  
Mr. Melcher doesn’t look at him though. “You and that bitchboy o’ yours git outta here, before he starts panting after Zeus’ dick.”  
  
“Sam!” Dean stops Sam’s lunge forward, but barely, hauling his brother back and shoving him in the direction of their house, falling in step next to him after a final wary look at Mr. Melcher.  
  
Sam’s silent on the way back, jaw held stiff and eyes on the pavement, reeking of sweat and angerscent. He sighs explosively when they’re back in their driveway, raking his hands through his hair. He turns around a few times before he collapses on the grass.  
  
“Look,” Dean starts, sitting down beside him in the breezy shade. Grass is dry, crunches under him. “You know what that fucker said isn’t true. Those old betas always got something to yap about. Act like this is still the damn forties or somethin’. Still pissed God made us first. You can’t let that shit get to ya—”  
  
“It’s not—” Sam says slowly, hands bunching, “—what he said about me, s’what he said about _you_.”  
  
“Okay, but,” Dean chuckles wryly, “Sammy, I’ve gotten a lot worse. You know that.”  
  
Sam was there in the bar that night when a beta, pissed over his empty wallet, had spat that Dean was a filthy _meek_ and smashed a bottle into the side of his face. If Dean recalls, he can still feel the impact, the glass piercing his lips and the big shard in his upper cheek that had gotten so close to his eye.  
  
Mostly what Dean remembers is the _thunks_ of fists into flesh after, looking up into Sam’s wolfed out face while Dad beat the beta into the hospital, no doubt would’ve fired off a round in him if it wasn’t for his promise that they were going to stop moving around. Murder charge wouldn’t have looked good to the town.  
  
“I wanted to kill him... you know... saw red.”  
  
Dean nods, but says, “Ah well, Sam, he’s just a grumpy old man. Probably a side effect of the Cialis.”  
  
That earns a snort of laughter from Sam at least. Dean gets up, pulls Sam’s arm till he’s back on his feet too. “Let’s go take a shower huh?”  
  
\--  
  
“‘Member when we were in Flagstaff and I ran off those two weeks?” Sam asks under the rush of water.  
  
Dean—who had been musing on the last time Sam and him showered together (much younger, and Sam was much smaller) and chuckling because yeah, _in every way_ —pauses in the idle movement of rubbing the soap-heavy loofah across the breadth of Sam’s collar bone and shoulders.  
  
“Yes,” he says after a moment. Yes, of course he remembers days of knocking on doors and yanking strangers into his face by their coat lapels and shaking them, _where’s my brother goddamit_ , and the cold ice pack of dread in his stomach, never sleeping always looking. _Yeah I’ll have a drink; my brother’s dead and it’s my fault_. _Give me another, and another_.  
  
“I had a dog named Bones,” Sam says.  
  
“I thought it smelled like dog in there.”  
  
“Made him run off before you guys came, whole Air Bud moment.” Sam sighs and Dean keeps quiet, moving the loofah under Sam’s arms, then over his nipples and down his stomach, his flanks, replacing sweatscent with Irish Spring. He watches the water sluice through the deep grooves in Sam’s hips and wash over his groin, flattening down the short and curlies into a dark thatch that almost looks like a heart, if Dean tilts his head just right.  
  
Sam stops Dean’s wrist, holding the loofah over his navel. “Dean, you know I wouldn’t run off again like that, right?”  
  
“What about college?” Dean asks dubiously as Sam steps in, spray at his back jumping little drops over his shoulders. “All you used to talk about. Gettin’ away from me and Dad and bein’ normal.”  
  
“I don’t wanna get away from _you_ ,” Sam insists. “Normal... well hell, even if you start makin’ us sleep on chupacabra bones, I’d rather do that than be somewhere you’re not.”  
  
“That’s sweet of you, Sam. But apple pie tastes pretty good.” Dean can feel the water going cold. He sets the loofah back down and reaches around Sam for the knob. The water cuts off with a loud jolt of old pipes.  
  
“I’m serious Dean,” Sam says in the _drip-drip-drip_ stillness. “I mean—I love you.”  
  
And of course Sam loves him, Dean fucking _knows_ that, but the way Sam says it, Dean thinks people only say those words in _that_ tone if they’re stupid with it, like the starbursting infatuation of first love.  
  
Kinda scares Dean. It really fucking does.  
  
\--  
  
It’s all dark, lights turned off in the deepest hour of morning. Dean can’t even pick out the ceiling or the windows. Black covers swathing him with only his head poking out, and Sam is heavy and hot under them, on top of Dean with his dewy lips on the half-circle of chest not covered by his shirt.  
  
Dean feels both like he’s gonna float off into the abyss above him and like he’s going to seep down into the bed and floor. He thinks nothing else might exist right now except this—Sam and him in the dark at three AM.  
  
Sam’s buttery murmur of, “I can’t wait to be inside you,” drifts from under the covers up to his ears and Dean sighs, groin throbbing where it’s pressed to Sam’s.  
  
Under the blanket, his arm wraps around Sam’s back. Hasn’t gotten the chance yet to research about it, if it’s possible. And he’s slick already because he _wants_ , but he doesn’t trust Sam, gentle and slow as he might go, to not wreck him with that thing.  
  
God, if Sam was a little more hotdog and a little less cucumber, Dean would spread his legs _wide_ , right now, and let him in so they could fuck in the dark like shy virgins. But all Dean can fit right now are a couple fingers and slim toys (those dumb starter ones for teenage omegas, the virgins, usually colored some kind of blushing pink—Dean _hates_ them) any bigger and it makes him feel like he’s gonna rip right open, like when Sam tried to squeeze in his pinkie finger the other day. Dean put the kibosh on that real quick.  
  
Sam’s lips drag over a shirt-covered nipple and makes Dean break out in goosebumps, nub drawing up tight under his brother’s warm mouth. He must make a noise or something because Sam chuckles slightly and mouths the thin cotton over the stiffened peak, satisfied he’s found a weak spot. Makes hot shivers roar through Dean, hips lifting into Sam’s inescapable weight.  
  
“You like this Dean?” But what he’s actually saying is something dirtier and more thrilling. Maybe like: _can I make you come like this ‘cause you love it, you fuckin’ love it_ and Dean nods to that, and with Sam out of view and in the privacy of the dark he can dig his teeth into his lip.  
  
He feels Sam’s tongue flatten over his nipple, down and up, dragging Dean’s shirt over the nub, and Dean can picture the grey material going dark and wet with Sam’s spit, dark and wet as the back of his pants are getting, he’s sure. Dean breathes heavy through his nose, the loud rustle all he can hear.  
  
In the past, girls have only spared his nipples little licks on their way down, cursory tweaks when they rode him, and Dean usually forgets about them even when he’s jerking off, but this—Sam’s special attention, the way he’s taking just the tip of his tongue and flicking it over and over—it’s arcing lightning straight to his dick.  
  
Then Sam sucks, the shirt and all, and Dean says, “Sam,” and has to move, hands coming up to Sam’s hair, a startled groan erupting when Sam shoves his crotch into his, hip bones shifting over Dean’s. Sam comes down to rest on him fully, should be too heavy but he’s just warm, safe weight and sexscent, and Dean spreads his legs around Sam’s hips, a knee knocking off to the side.  
  
Sam shifts again, and Dean feels hands, at his forearms, drawing them away from Sam’s head, then at his wrists, sliding them up the bed and out of the heated cocoon of covers. Dean’s fingers flex in the cooler air, wrists locked on either side of his pillow. Sam squeezes once, wordless command. Then leaves them there so he can reach under again.  
  
Dean feels the pull-tug of his shirt buttons being undone and swallows, tingling with anticipation from his big head to his little one. His dick thump-thump-thumps where it’s tight to Sam’s, pit of his stomach wound up.  
  
He feels his shirt fall away on either side and Sam’s breath on him, on his bare skin this time, and it feels much hotter.  
  
Sam gives a little baby-alpha rumble and finds Dean’s wrists with his hands again, palms on Dean’s tendons and veins, and the hot wet lick of his tongue makes Dean’s whole body twitch.  
  
Another, “Sam,” jumps out of his throat.  
  
Sam covers an unprotected nipple with his mouth and Dean feels helpless under him, pushing his hips up and spreading his toes, trying to cut sounds off by pressing his lips in, though Sam’s told him he doesn’t like when Dean does that, wants to hear him. But it’s born of the same instinct that allowed Dean to jerk off with Sam sleeping next to him for years and years. It’s a habit Dean keeps close even though he’s not thirteen anymore and everything is different.  
  
His hips keep lifting under Sam, working for friction, riding the current. He keeps thinking Sam’ll give up on his nipples and work his way down, maybe (oh God please) pull down Dean’s pants and suck his cock into his throat. But Sam stays right there, moving between left and right. Dean wriggles; there’s sweat soaking his back and behind his knees, tickling down his calves. Hot, too hot. He moves his hand to pull the covers off but Sam nips a bud and tightens his hand.  
  
“‘M too hot, Sam. Take the blanket off,” Dean gets out. Sam releases a wrist and pulls up a little to shuck the blanket off, then surges back between Dean’s legs and finds his mouth.  
  
Dean sighs into it. Cooler now without the blanket, but now he feels out in the open. If Dad barged in with an emergency, could Sam roll off Dean fast enough? Could Dean’s split-open shirt and kiss-plumped lips be overlooked?  
  
But then there’d be no hiding Sam’s boner. Dean could hide his, maybe, fold his legs just right, but Sam would be a lost cause with the fucking Eiffel Tower poking out of his pants.  
  
Sam’s not holding his wrists anymore, but Dean keeps them up there anyway. He can be good, if he gets something in return. When Sam licks into his mouth one last time, then heads back to his nipples, Dean pushes up and says: “Hey Sammy, go south.”  
  
“Mhn-mhn,” Sam hums, then lets the nipple out of his lips and pauses.  
  
When he speaks again, his mouth is up by Dean’s ear, “I’ll suck you off, if I can fuck you after,” and really, what kind of game is this?  
  
“Sam,” Dean whines, “c’mon now. I said it’ll be another—”  
  
“Yeah, but I want to fuck you _now_.”  
  
Dean, overflowing with sexual frustration, tired, not getting the blowjob he wants, can’t help it. “It’s too big!” he bursts out. Then, pins his lips shut and glares up into the dark.  
  
Sam, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “What?” And it’s a scoff: a _you-gotta-be-kidding-me, lamest excuse I ever heard_. Like he knows Dean’s ass better than Dean does, and first name _Jumbo_ , last name _Dick_ , will sure as hell fit up there.  
  
It incites Dean further. “It’s too big! It’s huge! Fuckin’ mondo! Don’t you get it? That... thing... ain’t gonna fit up in me without rearranging some vital organs first!”  
  
“Dean, come on. I know it seems like—”  
  
Dean growls softly, banging a heel into Sam’s thigh. “You don’t know ‘cause it ain’t your ass in jeopardy.”  
  
“Dean, I think maybe you’re just blowing this all out of proportion—”  
  
 _You’re blown out of proportion_.  
  
“Sam, your dick is as big as my _forearm_.”  
  
Sam has nothing to say to that. Dean pushes up and out from under him, sits up. His eyes track through the pitch black and find the barest outline of Sam’s slumped shoulders across from him.  
  
“Okay,” Sam says in his calm and rational _come-down-from-the-tree-little-kitty_ voice, “I know I’m—”  
  
“Gargantuan.”  
  
“—larger, but Dean, um, that’s s’posed to be a _good_ thing.”  
  
It’s Dean’s turn to scoff. “A good thing huh? Try having _your_ ass reamed by a baseball bat.”  
  
“It’s not _that_ big,” Sam says, words sounding like they come from behind clenched teeth. “Maybe you’re just comparing it to all the other ones you’ve seen.”  
  
And _that_ , there, Dean almost doesn’t catch it. He opens his mouth to say _c’mon Sam, it’s the size of the Space Needle_ , but then he realizes what Sam’s really saying. Beneath that nonchalant velvety tone, Sam’s calling him a _slut_.  
  
“Yeah, like I’ve seen so many,” he mutters. He doesn’t care. Not really.  
  
“I bet you have,” Sam counters, sharp as thorns. “I bet you’re giving it up to everybody _but_ me.” His voice snarls and bites like a live thing in the dark, jumping forward in a rush of teeth, then just as quick pulling in on itself with a whine.  
  
Dean wonders if he didn’t mean to say it. He wonders how long Sam’s thought that but snapped it down. He hears Sam’s throat work, slick sound and a readying breath to say, maybe, _I didn’t mean that_ , but Sam’s not the kind to say _I didn’t mean that_.  
  
Sam’s the kind that thinks about what he says. He’s the kind that _means_ what he says. There’s no _I didn’t mean that_ he can excuse himself with. They both know it, and that’s why Sam just sits there, scent an amalgamation of worry, anger and sex.  
  
 _You’re just like Dad_ , Dean thinks. _Can’t say sorry, can’t take it back, because you’re always right_.


	2. Part II

Sam is playing video games when Dean comes home, paper bag of beer and Twizzlers in his fist. It’s real warm now, July. Opened windows their only source of air conditioning. Dean toes the salt line back into order and leaves the door open, thinks that’ll be all right. The only monsters in this neighborhood are cockroaches and silverfish.  
  
“You gotta close the door man, Dad doesn’t like all those bugs getting in here,” Sam says as Dean crosses the sunlit carpet.  
  
“Yeah, well Dad doesn’t like you sittin’ on your ass playing Peggle,” Dean returns, putting the bag down on the kitchen table.  
  
“It’s Plants vs. Zombies, you’re the one who likes Peggle.”  
  
Dean can’t deny that. He can almost hear the explosions and _Ode to Joy_ as he takes the beers out and tears open the Twizzler package. He opens the bottles on the edge of the table and takes them into the living room.  
  
He throws himself on the couch beside his brother, wedges Sam’s beer between Sam’s thighs and strews a couple pieces of licorice there, as well.  
  
Zombies are closing in on Sam’s poor Snow Peas. “Dude, just use a Doom-shroom,” Dean advises after a long pull from his bottle, a foot up on the coffee table and his arm over the back of the couch, spreading out.  
  
Sam shakes his head. “Too much sun.”  
  
“You got that right.” Dean holds his beer to his sweaty forehead and lets his head roll back. He closes his eyes and sighs. Impala washed, oil changed, lawn mowed, cold beer in his hand and sweat cooling on his skin.  
  
Hell, he’d even gone to the library and got that research done. Only computer in the house is Sam’s, and Dean can’t trust him to not go look through his browser history or whatever. So he had found the most remote computer at the library and found out he was far from the only person with a big, penis-shaped problem.  
  
The knot, they had said, the knot was the thing he _really_ had to worry about. No matter if the dick was three coke cans on top of each other, keg-sized, whatever, apparently that would all be fine up until Sam would start forcing something apparently the size of a softball into his ass.  
  
Dean had read a few horror stories. Watched a few porn videos, the hardcore kind catered to alphas where the omegas were barely over five feet and looked about fifteen and fucking screamed when knotted, fighting back against a much bigger man who just kept on going. Dean had scoured through the videos and found maybe two with alphas that could match up to Sam, and watched with sickness and damning fear and irrefutable slivers of arousal as they held their omegas down by the arms and thrust in, battering-ram-style.  
  
 _Just try it_ , forums had said. _Go for it, give it a shot_. And they had said, _tell him not to knot_ , but Dean’s thinking of Sam, he is. Not being able to knot must be like chips without dip.  
  
Then the forums had said, _measure it_. They had whole diagrams and ratios. If it fits that way it’ll fit this way, etc. Longer length doesn’t mean a bigger knot, thicker doesn’t mean a smaller knot, Dean knows that. He’s wrapped his hand around knots the size of grapes on otherwise hefty guys, he’s seen knots so big on smaller guys it looked like their dick had swallowed a coconut.  
  
Sam’s knot had felt huge under his palm, but then he didn’t get a good look at it before Sam’s come had almost taken out his eye.  
  
He’s gonna have to measure it. He’s gonna have to wait till Sam’s deep asleep then he’s gonna have to jack him off and wrap measuring tape around the base. Then, he can go back and see if it’s possible.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
Dean licks his dry lips and looks at the TV again. Sam’s turned the game to the start screen. Dean looks over at him and Sam’s started in on his beer and licorice.  
  
“Where’d you go?” Sam asks after a ginger pull; he likes only a few brands—that dumb 64-calorie shit. At least it was on sale.  
  
“Just to get beer.”  
  
Sam nods a bit, slow in the way that means he doesn’t accept that answer, but what’s Dean supposed to tell him? He spent three hours in the library taking notes on how big a knot he can fit up his ass?  
  
“You were gone a long time,” Sam points out after another sip. The teeth aren’t there, but Dean recognizes that tone and bristles. He scowls at Sam, who’s just kinda staring at him, poker-faced, smart slanted eyes wavering between Dean’s. Waiting. Like Dean fucked the cashier and the manager and had a gang bang with a few customers over by the coolers and Sam’s just waiting for him to come clean.  
  
“Had to try a few stores to get your pansy-ass drink, Samantha,” Dean says, snatching some licorice from Sam.  
  
Sam settles back into the couch and looks ahead, jaw set. “It’s been two weeks,” Sam says, takes another drink and bangs his teeth on the bottle glass. “It’s been a month.”  
  
Dean tries for light-hearted now. It’s a nice day and the alcohol’s buzzing, “Dude, stop acting like you’re dying from blue balls, all right? I let you fuck my thighs this morning.”  
  
Admittedly that hadn’t been too much fun; Sam had kept trying to push his legs together more and bitching about his bowlegs, but hey, it’s Sam’s fault Dean didn’t get enough milk growing up.  
  
Dean chews up the last bit of licorice in his mouth and drops his hand on Sam’s thigh. “All right—promise not to get me in the face and I’ll blow you right here.”  
  
Sam pushes him away. “I don’t want a blowjob!” he growls. “I wanna fuck you over the couch!”  
  
His teeth are out. His eyes are red. Dean processes that and isn’t scared of the lupine features; remembers five-year-old Sam baring his teeny teeth at both him and Dad whenever he didn’t get what he wanted.  
  
Sam’s facing him now, reaching, seeming to loom up over him. “C’mon Dean, just the tip. Just a little. Just let me have a little.”  
  
Dean holds his beer with his left hand and pushes at Sam with his right. “Sammy,” he warns, but fuck, alphas are strong, even young ones like Sam, because his brother’s pushing him over, yanking his hips down the couch.  
  
Dean drinks more beer like that’ll help him figure out what the fuck to do because he’s not about to get molested with fucking Plants vs. Zombies music still playing in the background. He accidentally drops what’s left of the bottle on the floor. But at least he has his other hand free so he can push at Sam’s shoulders.  
  
“Sammy, c’mon,” he insists. Slurs it. He might be a little drunk. Might be why he starts laughing, as he looks up at Sam’s wolfed out face. Sam touches over his belt and looks human again.  
  
“Dean, please, please, let me try. I swear to God, I won’t hurt you.”  
  
“Sam, you hurt yourself with that meatstick. Don’t know how you live with it. You’re gonna get a hernia carrying that thing around.”  
  
Sam, honest to God, looks like he’s about to start crying. “Dean, please.”  
  
Dean sighs, dragging his hanging fingers over the beer-soaked carpet, his other ones are around Sam’s wrist now. He thinks, if Sam tries to start getting into his jeans, he’s just gonna bang his knee right into Sam’s oversized crotch. Hopefully a ruptured testicle will send fucking down to the very bottom of Sam’s priorities list.  
  
“M’too small, Sammy,” Dean says, when Sam just sits there, thumbs palpating the flesh over Dean’s belt like he’s trying to feel his ovaries, “and you’re too big.”  
  
Sam looks like Dean’s every word is cracking his heart. “You don’t even wanna try.”  
  
“That’s not it,” Dean says, “I just gotta see if—”  
  
Distorted guitars pick up in volume, grinding in the air between them. Dean’s phone is in his front pocket. Sam snatches it up before Dean can and looks like he’s succeeded in catching Dean red-handed, like his fucking pimp is calling, a client. A john instead of John.  
  
“Hello,” Sam barks, fists bunching, staring down at Dean like _I got you now, you little slut_.  
  
Dean smirks as Sam’s face evens out and he drops his head. “Yessir, he’s right here.”  
  
Sam gives him his phone, lips pursed.  
  
“Suspicious bitch,” Dean mutters, sitting up with the phone to his ear. “Dad?”  
  
“Why’d Sam have your phone?” Dad’s voice crackles.  
  
Dean opens his mouth to say something that’ll get Sam in a shitload of trouble, but Dad overtakes him, “Wait, never mind. Dean, need you and Sam down here. Nest of chupes ‘bout fifty miles south of you.”  
  
Dean’s already leaning forward to grab the notepad and pen off the coffee table, sobering up. He scribbles down the coordinates Dad gives him. “You all right—”  
  
“Dean, you and Sam get your asses in gear. One hour.” Line snaps off.  
  
Dean rips off the sheet and tucks it into his jeans, stands up and pushes a boot at Sam’s knee. “Up and at ‘em Sammy. Dad needs us to help with some cabras.”  
  
“No, he needs _your_ help, I can stay—”  
  
“He said both of us, so hurry it up,” Dean says. He doesn’t have the inherent persuasion of alpha voice, but he’s learned over the years that Sam does respond to a certain tone. Dean’s already moving anyway, grabs his black jacket and his keys, and thinks Sam must’ve really dropped his I-wanna-be-normal shtick because he’s left his half-cleaned Ruger haphazard on the kitchen table.  
  
Sam looks particularly sour when Dean shoves the rifle in his hands on his way out the door. Dean thinks it’s because they could be gone awhile, and Sam won’t be able to try and sneak into Dean’s pants with Dad so close.  
  
Even the blazing heat outside can’t wipe the smug look off Dean’s face.  
  
Dean makes it to the middle of nowhere in forty-five minutes. Tightly packed trees throw everything in shade. Mosquitos are on him soon as he gets out of the car and, even though it’s still muggy, Dean does up his jacket.  
  
Sam didn’t bring one, so he walks beside Dean, slapping at his winged tormentors. “Bet there’s more in these woods than chupacabras,” Dean says, feeling suffocated already. “Pack of black dogs, a few wendigos, bigfoot, squonks. Par for the course.”  
  
“Long as there’re no clowns,” Sam says, between furious swats. Dean chuckles.  
  
“Careful Sam. You don’t want a tulpa.”  
  
Dad is by his truck, long nasty gash cleaved from his temple to his jaw. “Six,” he growls, “counted six goddamn chupacabras. You believe that?”  
  
Dean does, because he can hear them somewhere to his left, those awful whistles and chitters pricking up the hair on his nape. “How’d you find their hideout?” Sam whispers after a still moment, head turned in the noise’s direction.  
  
“Few farmers nearby with the usual story. Livestock all sucked dry.” Dad wipes at his face then gestures with his rifle. “Let’s move out, take care of this tonight. Don’t wanna have to camp in these woods.”  
  
\--  
  
They end up having to camp in the woods. Dad is on one side of the fire and Sam and him are on the other—Dean on a stump with his brother nearly lying across his feet. Dean has the watch, and he spends it with his rifle at the ready and his boot tenderizing Sam’s side.  
  
“All your damn fault,” Dean hisses when Sam starts growling in warning. “We gotta stay in this creepy-ass forest because you thought you’d aim at the _legs_.”  
  
“Fine, I missed. Hard not to when it keeps jumping all over the place. Can I get some sleep now?”  
  
“ _I_ should get some sleep. Let the one _you_ let get away come over and suck you dry.” Dean digs his shoe into Sam’s ribs again. “Now we’re gonna be on a wild goose chase tomorrow trying to find the fucker.”  
  
“Well at least there’s only one left.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause Dad and I don’t fuckin’ shoot from the hip. Christ, Sam.”  
  
“Leave me alone,” Sam groans, turning in his sleeping bag. He brings the cover up more securely to shield his back from Dean’s foot. Dean stops, only because he shouldn’t be distracted and Dad already chewed Sam out good anyway.  
  
Dean breathes the frosty air and resettles his hands on his gun. He restocks the fire when the coals burn low; chupes don’t like fire so the thing should keep away from their little patch of dirt. But Dean’s kinda hoping it shows anyway, so he can line up a shot and get it right between its huge beetle-black peepers.  
  
Dean’s got four hours until Dad takes his spot. Two hours pass with a whole lot of nothing, Dean blinks hard every few seconds to get the burn out of his eyes. Every now and then a whistling squeal erupts north of them, making him start and look down his sights. It’s close enough to be uncomfortable but not close enough he can find its eyeshine through the trees.  
  
When he’s three hours in with the hair on the back of his neck permanently raised, Sam stirs. He rolls onto his back, eyes two pools of liquid silver from the fire. Dean pushes his boot at him. “What’re you doing? Go back to sleep.”  
  
Sam sits up with a yawn. He wriggles out of his sleeping bag, “Gotta take a leak.”  
  
“You go take a leak then,” Dean grumbles, watching Sam get swallowed up by the dark. Dean kicks some more branches into the fire, checks his sights. Wouldn’t want Mr. Chupe hopping away with Sam’s dick.  
  
Sam takes the usual amount of time to drain his dragon. He comes back with rustling footfalls to Dean’s left, and before Dean can stop him, he’s straddling the stump behind Dean and wrapping his arms around his waist. “M’cold,” Sam says under Dean’s ear. “I think my dick turned into a popsicle.”  
  
“Long as you don’t expect me to lick it.” Dean shifts his shoulders under Sam’s stupid pointy chin. Shit, his brother clings worse than static. “If you hadn’t snafued that shot we could be in a warm bed right now.”  
  
“I messed up.”  
  
“Yeah you did.”  
  
“I’m a horrible shot.”  
  
“Damn straight you are.”  
  
“You are a much, much better hunter than me,” Sam affirms, and hell, when did his hand get past Dean’s zipper? Sam’s arm is banded tight around his ribs, and when Sam slides his cold palm over Dean’s hot cock Dean gasps, moans, and can’t pull away.  
  
Sam bites his ear. “Dean, you gotta be quiet,” he says as he palms his soft dick. Dean stares at Dad sleeping on the other side of the fire. Dad will wake up the minute his turn at watch starts, not one second late or early, but fuck, he’s _three yards away_.  
  
Dean looks into the trees and moves his rifle to one hand, lets it fall along his leg. He squints at his watch and it tells him there’s forty-five minutes before Dad will wake up.  
  
He’s hard now. He really hates Sam. With a breath, Dean pushes Sam’s arm out of the way and extracts himself from his hold, stands up. “Hope you don’t think you’re gonna fuck me tonight,” Dean says, hauling Sam up none-too-gently. “You tryin’ to pull some bullshit? Touching me in front of Dad?”  
  
“But Dad’s asleep,” Sam says lightly, plastering himself to Dean, open-mouthed kiss over Dean’s Adam’s apple. That usually makes Dean’s knees shake, but he doesn’t let them right now. “We’re gonna need to tell him somehow.”  
  
“Not by bumping and grinding right in front of him! Christ, Sam!” Dean steps back from Sam’s heat. He wipes a hand down his face and turns away.  
  
He paces out of the fire’s aura, longing to put distance between him and Sam, between them and Dad. He holds his rifle tight and gets a few feet before he hears Sam behind him and force at his back smacks him into the nearest tree. Winded, feeling like he’s been rammed by a damned semi, he doesn’t have the breath at first to tell Sam to get off him.  
  
“Don’t walk away from me,” Sam growls tightly, and his hands seem to be everywhere, groping Dean’s ass and hips and cock.  
  
“Sam, let go of me,” Dean says, voice thready. He steps backwards into Sam’s weight and his brother cages his arms around him. Dean’s rifle clatters to the ground and he twists and pulls at Sam’s wrists, his heart in his ears and his voice splitting in panic, “Sam, let go, let go of me now, right now! Let me go! _Sammy_!”  
  
Dean elbows him and Sam’s grip loosens. Dean flips around and cracks his brother in the cheek, flattens his back into the tree as Sam falls down. He breathes and stares at Sam, his body still blaring red-light panic, almost dizzy with it.  
  
“The hell is wrong with you,” Dean whispers, watching Sam kneel up and touch his cheek, swearing under his breath. “I tell you to let me go, you let me go, you understand me? You ever pull that shit again...”  
  
Sam walks on his knees till he’s in front of Dean, and he says he’s sorry, and he starts undoing Dean’s belt. Dean looks down at him, feeling thrown in all directions. “What are you doing?”  
  
“I said I was sorry,” Sam husks, unbuttoning and unzipping Dean’s jeans. There’s a loud rustle when he yanks them, and Dean’s briefs, to his knees, lets them stay rolled there. He breathes on Dean’s cock then takes him into his mouth.  
  
Dean’s eyes turn into his head. He forgets everything but the soft warmth encasing his cock. “Sammy,” he moans, tilting his head up to the sky. He puts his fingers in Sam’s thick hair and feels like he might tip over. He thought he’d never get to experience this again; alphas aren’t supposed to give omegas head, they’re not even really supposed to pay attention to their cocks, so this is, this is...  
  
Dean comes embarrassingly quick and barely manages to keep quiet. Sam swallows, which is goddamn orgasm-worthy on its own. Dean collapses with the tree at his back, breathing hard. He touches the rifle beside him to ground himself. He’s bare-assed on the dirt and pine needles are sticking to the slick coating his thighs and Sam’s kissing him and it’s salty.  
  
“Sorry,” Sam says again, kissing his eyebrow and chin. Dean’s so gone he almost thinks Sam’s apologizing for the blowjob, which is damn sacrilege. He sees the bruise yellowing Sam’s cheek and remembers why Sam sucked him off in the first place. “I shouldn’t’ve grabbed you like that. Guess I got carried away.”  
  
“Okay,” Dean says stupidly. Sam must’ve hoovered his brain out through his dick. He chuckles softly and kisses Sam. “You blow me every time you mess up and we’ll _never_ have any problems.”  
  
  
  
The chupacabra doesn’t show itself until the next morning. Overcast and drizzling; Dean squeezes rainwater out of his eyes and braces his rifle to his shoulder. The creature eats a bullet and dies with a hoarse wail.  
  
When they’re back at the house, Dean peels off his soaked clothes and falls into bed, dead to the world before his head hits the pillow.  
  
When he wakes up that night, Sam’s wrapped around him, arms locked tight over his waist. “Fucking furnace,” Dean mutters. He withdraws from his painfully clingy brother and wipes sweat off the back of his neck.  
  
Sam stirs and mumbles, arms stretching over the empty spot. His fingers curl a few seconds. Then relax. Dean gives him the pillow to cuddle with instead. Then goes to take a piss.  
  
Downstairs, half the lights are off. “Dad?” Dean calls, habit more than anything. He flicks the dining room light on and picks up his phone from the table. Dad’s voicemail says he’s in Kentucky—black hearse that’s been running folks off the road. “Great.”  
  
Dad left him some coffee in the pot at least. Dean heats up a cup and sits down with it. He lets the liquid scald his tongue and knuckles sleep out of his eyes.  
  
When he’s finished off two cups he thinks about taking a shower, ordering some take-out. He goes back upstairs.  
  
Sam’s still passed out in a sprawl of limbs now with his shirt rucked up to his ribs and his waistband lopsided, one side rode down around the top of his thigh. Dean stares at the pubic hair spidering out, then at Sam’s face. His brother’s hair is a hurricane mess and his lips are slightly parted. Sam doesn’t snore, but Dean can hear the slight whistling wheeze that accompanies deep sleep.  
  
Sam won’t be waking up any time soon. There’s a good opportunity here, Dean realizes. Considering Sam’s belligerence lately, giving him a concrete yes or no on the can-you-fuck-me-or-not question seems like something Dean needs to do.  
  
It takes a few minutes for Dean to find a measuring tape. It takes him another few minutes to psych himself up, because there’s kind of a big chance Sam’ll wake up if Dean strokes him enough to plump his knot, but all Dean needs is a measurement—hopefully he can whip the tape away fast enough and play it off as some kind of kinky wake-up call if Sam comes to.  
  
Dean gets on the bed gingerly, and moves over to Sam. He swings a leg over his brother’s knees and straddles Sam, starts dragging the waistband of his pants down off his hips. Lip caught in his teeth, Dean monitors Sam’s face for any changes, but his expression doesn’t even flicker. There’s a roll of drool trickling from the corner of his mouth now, like he’s fallen even further into sleep. Dean hopes that’s the case.  
  
Sam’s dick, even soft, looks vaguely horrific, like a snoozing monster. Dean holds the measuring tape in one hand and tentatively touches Sam with the other, picking up his cock and keeping his touch light. Sam doesn’t stir, but his lips give a spastic, jerky twitch like he’s sensed a disturbance in the Force.  
  
Dean feels kinda guilty. His brother looks very sweet and innocent while he’s sleeping, cock soft and vulnerable to Dean’s manipulations. But, it’s gotta be done. Sam wouldn’t object to a handjob.  
  
“There you go,” Dean murmurs when Sam’s cock starts filling out in his hand, rising up (a real feat of nature, Jesus).  
  
Dean strokes it in long pulls from base to head, encouraging it to fatten up completely. His fingers don’t meet around the girth and Dean wonders which fertility god blessed Sam, and what Sam might have done to deserve it, to get a dick this fucking huge. Dicks like this just _can’t_ happen naturally. When Dean squeezes tight around the sensitive base of his cock, Sam’s eyes move beneath their lids and his fingers flex on the sheets.  
  
“C’mon, Sam,” Dean grunts, pumping the flesh there, quickest way to get Sam’s knot in play. Sam’s hips push up into the feeling, a quick reflexive move that tells Dean he’s still in la-la-land, probably dreaming about fucking Dean’s ass.  
  
Dean could make that a reality, _once_ he knows if it’s physically possible. If it is, hopefully that knowledge will suck some of the apprehension out of him and they can finally fuck. If it’s not, well. Sam’s just gonna have to get by on the “just the tip” technique.  
  
Sam’s knot isn’t forming as quickly as Dean thought it would, might be because he’s asleep. Sam’s face is slightly red now, and he’s breathing through his mouth. His lips, fingers and thigh muscles keep twitching. He looks dangerously close to waking up, and that’s just what Dean doesn’t need.  
  
He increases the pressure at the base, to the point where he thinks it would hurt like a bitch if Sam squeezed _him_ this hard. His fingers cramp around the knuckles but Dean ignores it. Sam’s tenses up, stilling, any second his knot’s gonna balloon and Dean’s gonna get a good measurement—  
  
Sam groans, very much an _I’m-awake-and-horny_ groan. Dean bites into his tongue and drops the tape over the side of the bed. His hand flies off Sam’s cock but the other boy seizes his wrist and forces it back.  
  
“Mmmm, Dean,” Sam’s sleep-rough voice says. “Don’t stop now.”  
  
Dean chuckles nervously. “Hey, Sammy.” Fuck, _fuck_ , he was so close, and the bitch had to go and wake up.  
  
“Hey,” Sam returns, smiling. He raises his hips into Dean’s grip then sits up. His hand slides up Dean’s forearm. “So, all this time, huh?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’ve been acting like you don’t want it.” The point of Sam’s nose rubs along the side of his neck. “I think, the problem, Dean,” he whispers roughly, “is that you want it _too_ much.”  
  
Dean takes his hand off Sam’s cock and tries to lean away, but Sam’s arms come around him in a flesh-cage. Sam presses a row of kisses up his neck. “I knew you did. I knew you did. You were just playing with me. ‘Course you love how big it is.”  
  
What the hell kind of mental gymnastics has Sam pulled off to arrive at that conclusion? “Nuh—no, Sam—”  
  
“You just didn’t want to admit it. S’okay Dean.” His lips find Dean’s mouth, and the kiss is overpowering and hungry. Dean makes a sound of protest and flattens his hands against Sam’s shoulders.  
  
“Were you gonna fuck me in my sleep?” Sam chuckles, overtaking Dean onto his back. Sam sucks another kiss and rubs his erection between Dean’s legs. “When I wouldn’t be able to really enjoy it. That doesn’t seem very fair.”  
  
“Sam, get off,” Dean says when his lips aren’t covered. He tries to push at Sam’s shoulders and get out from under him, but he knows if Sam wants him there he’s staying there. The thought makes fear spike his scent.  
  
“Dean, come on. You don’t have to pretend anymore. I figured it out,” Sam soothes. He makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. “Tough, macho Dean. ‘Course he wouldn’t want to admit to his little brother how much he wants his dick up his ass.”  
  
“Sam...”  
  
Sam presses his lips to his cheek, tender.  
  
“S’okay, Dean. I get it. You shouldn’t have been ashamed about it in the first place; you’re omega after all. They want dick and alphas wanna give it to them. I don’t see the issue, but...” Sam sits up off him, giving Dean some needed air. Sam cradles his hips. “Leave it to you to make it all weird. Act like you’re scared to cover up how much you want it.”  
  
Sam’s yanking his shorts off—down his thighs, off his ankles. Sam’s cock, jutting up, leaking, looks like a weapon, and Dean’s distracted by it, focusing solely on it because you gotta keep an eye on a thing like that, make sure it doesn’t try anything funny—  
  
He’s not even aware he’s been flipped over until he inhales sheets instead of air. He gets on his hands and cranes his neck to look behind him. “The hell are you doing?”  
  
Something heavy touches the top of his crack, Sam’s dick, and _oh fuck no_. Dean tries to lunge forward but doesn’t get anywhere; Sam just eases him back and says, “Dean, quit the charade. I know you want it. This isn’t gonna work if you don’t relax.”  
  
“Relax!” Dean spits, trying to squirm his hips away, stopped by Sam’s hand or his arm or the threat of Sam’s dick in his crease. “I told you! I told you: it’s too fucking big! Sam, let me go!”  
  
“No one buys it, Dean. You _love_ big. You don’t wanna admit it, that’s not my problem.” Sam drags his dick through the split, head giving a good rub over Dean’s hole, and Dean goes diamond-stiff. He’s afraid to move now because what if he accidentally rocks back into it and just impales himself without meaning to—  
  
Sam huffs. “Yeah, sure you don’t want it.” Another slide. Dean can feel how easy it is, grimaces when Sam continues, “You’re wetter than a fish. Dripping all over me.”  
  
And fuck, Sam didn’t need to tell him that; Dean can feel it happening, and it’s just, of course, his body reacting to Sam’s pheromones, the threat of getting fucked—more a defense mechanism than anything. Dean’s studied up on that shit.  
  
There’s a sudden pressure and Dean’s breath stays in his lungs. Sam is doing it, right now no take backs. He’s going to fuck him and Dad’ll find his hollowed out corpse here tomorrow night, Jesus—  
  
Sam’s saying, “Relax,” or something like that, soft and meant to instruct. Yeah, relax when the Empire State Building is about to get shoved up his keister, like that’s gonna help anything.  
  
Pressure mounting. Dean crushes his inner cheek flesh between his molars and holds onto the covers against the wave force. “Dean, c’mon. Let go. Let me in.”  
  
“Shut up,” Dean says inarticulately, irrationally, but he hates that dumb whiny current in Sam’s voice; he thinks it’s so damn easy to just let a spear slide into fragile flesh. Dean’s got fucking news.  
  
Under the mounting force, his hole is no match for Sam’s hip flexors and battering ram cock. It’s so sudden, the way it pops in, like it’s that fucking easy for his body to acquiesce to whatever the hell Sam’s dick wants, what an alpha wants. Dean blows up his lungs with air on the longest inhale he’s ever taken so he can’t scream at the bright flash of pain.  
  
“You’re so tight.” Sam’s voice is clearer than water, louder than thunder. Dean feels it behind, around, inside him like it’s the only real thing, because right now he’s blinking at the sheets, his hands on the sheets, disbelieving and holding his breath while Sam sneaks in some more, the snake in the garden.  
  
 _Biblical dick_ , Dean thinks, and loses all his breath when he chuckles inanely. It turns into a quiet whimper as Sam’s dick dives further in, Sam saying, “Fuck you’re just, crushing me. Never had a dick this big?”  
  
 _Never had_ any _dick_! Dean shouts inside his mind, and his body decides after another inch that no, the Washington Monument does not belong up his ass. He leans his hips forward a tiny increment, then another. He doesn’t get any further because Sam realizes, grabs his hips and reels his catch back in.  
  
“Whoa Dean, what’re you doing? I’m almost in. I’m really trying not to hurt you.” Those centimeters of cock Dean managed to get away from slide back in again, and then some.  
  
“Fuck,” Dean whispers. More and more and more; Sam just keeps on stuffing him with it, and the worst thing is that it does fucking fit—Sam’s pubic hair crinkling on his skin after a long, final push. Dean collapses on his elbows when his arms start shaking, mouth finding a helping of blanket to bite into instead of his tongue. Too damn full; beyond uncomfortable, beyond fucking anything. He feels like he’s an elastic band that’s been stretched around the fucking Earth. This shouldn’t be fucking possible.  
  
“Well, it fit,” Sam says, mostly smug, a little relieved. He puts his hand low on Dean’s spine where his shirt’s ridden up, presses there. Dean hears the bed squeak as Sam spreads his knees and straightens in preparation for the most painful fuck Dean’s getting in this lifetime.  
  
It’s only a moment’s wait. Sam pulls out. And it feels like he takes Dean’s guts with him. The push in hurt, the pull out is _excruciating_ , and Dean opens his mouth, tears cutting his cheeks.  
  
“Sluh—slow down,” Dean rasps and Sam doesn’t hear him, must not, because he’s pressing back in, lurching deep, and out again, until he’s really fucking Dean and Dean’s tears are getting shaken off his face as he’s jostled with the thrusts.  
  
 _Deal with it_ , Dean thinks, when the strongest, unshakeable part of his brain revs back up to all four cylinders. _It’s just pain, just pain, it’ll be over real soon, the body feels pain but the mind_ —  
  
Dean swipes his tongue over his salty upper lip, the groove of a scar, and remembers that bottle smashing into his face. He focuses on that remembered pain instead of how much he hurts right now, remembers Sam’s wolfed out face, furyscent that anyone would try and hurt his brother. He thinks of Sam’s teeth and ember eyes and the _thunks_ of Dad’s fists.  
  
 _Slam, slam, slam,_ Dean’s holding onto the covers for dear life, yellow part of the Batman logo squeezed like canary plumage in his fists.  
  
Sam’s whispering, cycling through inflections of Dean’s name. On one _Dean_ —so sharp it must tear his mouth—he whips his hips forward and hauls Dean’s hips in, bodies meeting at the halfway point with a mean smack.  
  
He grows inside Dean, inexplicably, impossibly, his knot expanding into Dean’s hole, battling it, subduing foolish flesh. Sam’s hands crush his hips, fingers dug into the ridges of his pelvis like they’ll just thread under the bone and yank Dean into a husk.  
  
Dean falls down under it, completely; knees slip wide, legs fall straight on the bed until only Sam’s locked grip is keeping his ass up. Dean puts his arms around his head and tries not to shake too much as he loses the last of his composure, agony blaring in every skin cell, pulled too tight. He hurts, he hurts, he hurts and the sobs are making him tense up around Sam’s knot over and over.  
  
“Why’re you laughin’ Dean—ah, _ah_ , oh my God, that feels good,” Sam says in a hoarse voice, and he moves leisurely into the feeling. He pulls up on Dean’s hips and drops them back, Dean hanging off his knot like a good omega.  
  
Dean scowls, tears ebbing a bit as anger eats up the pain. He burns hotter when Sam says, “Look at you. Just can’t let go of me.” Sam’s hands rub his back where Dean’s shirt has long rucked up around his shoulders, catching sweat there. Skin on skin.  
  
Dean hopes his fury shoots pins from his back straight into Sam’s hands. He stops laughing, crying, whatever he had been doing. Shuts his mouth, molars stamped together. Sam’s right hand swerves east, sliding over Dean’s side and under.  
  
“Did you come?” Sam touches his cock, grabs it roughly in a way Dean knows is an accident, because Sam had expected hardness, not the soft sorry limp skin hanging, but that’s what he finds. Sam relaxes his touch, swipes his fingers over the head of Dean’s cock, because, Dean knows again, he’s looking for come, precome. There’s none there.  
  
“I thought.” Sam swallows. Fingers go up Dean’s belly as much as possible, a game of find-the-come. Drops down to the bed and slides his hand over dry sheets, then snakes it back out from under Dean with a soft, disbelieving breath. Takes his touch away altogether and the springs whine as he shifts on his knees, only heat on Dean now are Sam’s hips against his ass.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
Dean stays quiet. Doesn’t trust his voice not to croak and croak and give away the pain there.  
  
“Dean, roll over. Dean.”  
  
Dean resolutely doesn’t roll over. He doesn’t think he can. And he doesn’t want to try. It would be like trying to swivel around the Great Pyramid of Giza.  
  
“ _Dean_.” Sam pushes at his ribs. One hand, two. Dean feels himself tip to the left and it’s almost all over. “Dean, roll over. Dean, I said—” Sam’s alpha strength must kick into gear, because one second Dean’s looking at black sheets and then the ceiling’s filling his vision, distorted under the pain that lances through Dean’s core.  
  
He scrubs a hand over his slushy wet face while Sam makes a harsh sound in his throat and his scent turns high and messy with distress, so overpowering that Dean coughs the spice out of his throat.  
  
“Oh, Dean, what...” Sam leans over him, taking over the ceiling. Flurry of hands touching his face, shoulders. Change in position is a lightning strike of agony branching out. “Dean, you okay? You okay? Dean?”  
  
 _Dean, Dean, Dean_. Said so much it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore; Dean wants to puke. He smacks away Sam’s hands. Then smacks Sam. Backhands him across the cheek. “You dick!”  
  
Before Sam’s hair can even fall back into place, Dean curls his fingers in and pops him in the eye. Sam yelps and grabs his face, falling back out of striking distance. His knot tugs and it’s so cruel Dean’s whole body flashes cold and the gasp he inhales freezer burns his mouth and throat. More tears rise and scald his face.  
  
“Don’t fuckin’ move,” he screams in a whisper at Sam. “Don’t you _fuckin_ ’ move again.”  
  
Sam doesn’t.  
  
It’s a long night.


	3. Part III

Forget the Eiffel Tower, Dean wakes up the next morning feeling like he’s had Mt. Everest’s frosty peak shoved up his ass.  
  
Unable to walk without a case of Jell-O legs, Dean just gets back into bed. Sam tells Dad, “Dean is sick and puking everywhere.” Dad stays downstairs.  
  
Sam, unfortunately, does not. Parks his ass in the bed too, sitting on top of the covers, strangling distance. Dean’s fists clench when Sam suggests that maybe some cream would help, Dean, or maybe a massage?  
  
“Oh no, no. You are never touching my ass again, Sammy. So screw your creams and your massage and—and your dick, screw your dick. You better start learning how to suck it yourself ‘cause if I see that thing out of your pants again I’m hacking it off!” Dean bangs his fists on the bed. “Go get my Advil!”  
  
Sam gets infuriatingly more puppy-eyed. “I really thought you were enjoying it.”  
  
“Who the hell would enjoy getting Kilimanjaro’d?!”  
  
“Kilimanjaro’d?”  
  
“Go get the damn pills. God, can’t even look at you right now.” Dean looks away from Sam’s drawn together eyebrows and stuck-out lip to glare at the ceiling instead.  
  
Two days time, Dean can manage to walk without looking like a well-fucked fool.  
  
Outside a 7-Eleven, Sam puts his hand on Dean’s thigh. Dean slides it away and gives his brother a reproachful look. “The hell are you doing?”  
  
It’s a hot day. Sam’s got his window rolled down, breeze fluttering his hair as he looks back at Dean, nearly turned all the way towards him with his lips pursed around the red straw of his Slurpee. He sucks some flavored slush up noisily.  
  
“We could try again.”  
  
Dean looks back to the dashboard with a scoff. “Seriously?” He shakes his head and chuckles. “Okay, Sam, we can try again. You go ass up for _me_ and we can try again _all_ damn day.”  
  
Sam makes a face and sucks at his Slurpee like he’s trying to soothe himself.  
  
“No? Then shut up.” Dean closes his eyes and lets his head fall back on the headrest. He cleans the sweat on his upper lip and smirks. “You wouldn’t be the first alpha I’ve fucked. You know, alotta alphas like you like that sort of thing.”  
  
Sam snorts softly. “You expect me to believe an A let you fuck them?”  
  
“ _Paid_ me to fuck them.”  
  
Sam blinks.  
  
“S’it so hard to believe?” Dean asks lowly, cutting his eyes to Sam. “They want me any way they can get me. Since I wouldn’t let ‘em fuck _me_...” Dean’s face shrugs. “Was good money too.”  
  
Sam’s glowering, crushing his poor Slurpee. “Who’d you finally give it up to? How much they pay?”  
  
“Not a whole hell of a lot,” Dean says beneath his breath, gets out of the Impala. Slams the door. He leans against it, wrists on the hood, playing with his keys and feeling the sun-hot steel.  
  
When Sam gets out too and meets his eyes over the roof of the car, Dean says, “You know, Sam, Mr. Melcher was right. You’re just the kind of alpha he was talking about. Thinks everything belongs to them and world’s s’posed to get on its knees for them.”  
  
“Don’t say that.” Sam presses forward into the car. If it wasn’t between them, Dean has no doubt Sam would be up in his face right now. “That’s not fair. I thought you were enjoying it. You know that. You never told me to stop, Dean!”  
  
“Yeah, and I bet you wouldn’t’ve! Even if I had!” A passing beta gives Dean a stare. Dean scowls at him and turns so his back is to Sam and the parking lot. He crosses his arms securely. “Because I’m just a stupid _meek_ right?”  
  
“Dean no. C’mon, that’s...” Sam makes a frustrated noise. “Don’t talk like that. I feel guilty as hell.”  
  
“You should.” Dean squeezes his keys in his fist until metal bites his skin. “Acted like, like, I was a whore or something. I mighta did some of that when I was younger, but I’m not fucking Tom, Dick, and Harry every day of the week and hanging you out to dry. I never—”  
  
What’s the damn point? Dean keeps the rest of the words in his throat.  
  
“I know that. Know that now. And I’m sorry Dean.”  
  
Dean can’t think of anything in response. Eventually he scrubs a hand down his face and drops his arms.  
  
The inside of the store is cool, and they have ice cream and hot food by the counter. Dean spends the twenty in his wallet on snacks and while the cashier’s bagging his stuff, Dean turns his head to look through the glass.  
  
The Impala parked close to the entrance, Dean can see Sam in the passenger seat, elbow sticking out of the rolled-down window and his hand pasted over his eyes, lips twisted up.  
  
Sam’s still in emo-mode when Dean gets back in the car.  
  
“Stop fucking crying, Sam,” Dean says after he’s arranged his bags of goodies and is trying to find a way to eat his Big Bite without ruining his clothes and the upholstery. Sam is weeping away shamelessly beside him. That gets Dean, because he _should_ be ashamed.  
  
“M’crying ‘cause apparently I raped my fucking brother.” Sam inhales like a gutter going backwards and makes a squeaky little sob that has Dean jabbing a relish-covered thumb into the tape deck.  
  
He forces the hotdog carton into one of the paper bags then drops them in Sam’s lap, sucks the relish and grease off his fingers and starts the car. Last lines of _No One Like You_ trickle away and the first chords of _Bark at the Moon_ start.  
  
Dean sighs in relief.  
  
Halfway home, he can’t stand it. “You didn’t _rape_ me.” Comes out like acid. He turns down the music so it can eat through Sam’s head. “Your dick is just _too damn big_. Wasn’t lying about that. Hurt like hell when... well, all of it.”  
  
“You were wet and, God, I really thought everything was just a front. That you’d been playing with me. Was getting lead by my knot.” Sam sighs. Dean keeps his eyes on the road, but he sees Sam look at him in his peripheral. “And you were touching me when I woke up. Jerking me off.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Sam chuckles wetly. “Do I wanna know why? Poke Worm, watch him squirm?”  
  
Dean’s glad he’s not the only one who remembers the worm they found at Bobby’s. “I was trying to measure it.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Doesn’t matter.”  
  
“Tell me why.”  
  
“Fine! I was trying to see if I could pull it off.”  
  
“Pull it off?”  
  
“Not—I was. Jesus, Sam.” Dean laughs. “Yeah, I wanted to pull off your dick and use it as a tire iron. Seriously?”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“I’m not that sadistic. What I meant was, I’d been doing all this research on how big was _too_ big. So I thought I’d take a measurement and then ask around about it. I was gonna let you fuck me, if things checked out.”  
  
Sam doesn’t say anything else. Dean’s tired of talking anyway.  
  
\--  
  
Dean can’t really keep his hard edge. Isn’t like Sam or Dad, who’ll hold a grudge till kingdom come. Dean’s always prized his ability to get over things, and a month of aiming a cold shoulder Sam’s way has left him frozen over. Bit by bit he defrosts, and the run-off streams over Sam, eroding sad, craggy mountains of guilt.  
  
“It’s not like I can just get a dick reduction,” Sam muses while they’re doing push-ups.  
  
Dean finishes his set of reps and pauses with his knees on the ground for a breather. “Aw, sure you can Sammy. If we do it the old-fashioned way that is.”  
  
“Thanks for the nightmares.”  
  
Sam collapses with a breath and Dean starts his next set, his sweat making little dark spots on the cement.  
  
“Well, we don’t _need_ to screw,” Sam rasps after a long drink from the water bottle. “Right? There are mates that never fuck at all ‘cause they don’t need to.”  
  
“They don’t _want_ to,” Dean corrects after a grunt of exertion. He keeps his arms straight and says, “So it’s different. You still wanna fuck. I still wanna fuck. What world is not fucking gonna work in? Our balls’d fall off.” He dips back down.  
  
“Well then I don’t know what to do. Sex is... kind of a huge slice of the relationship, you know? So, handies, blowjobs, if all we can do is that... I don’t know. We could call it quits. Maybe it wasn’t meant to work out, and we just read it wrong.”  
  
“You think you’d have any luck getting someone else to take that monster?”  
  
“Could you _not_ call it that?”  
  
Dean rises up a final time then moves back and unfolds until he’s sitting with his legs stretched, resting on his hands.  
  
“S’what it is,” Dean mutters, looking away from Sam’s hurt expression. “Like a wendigo in dick form. Like a wendigo’s _dick_. God, you seen one of those? How do you expect anyone to be all right with your wendigo-dick getting shoved in them?”  
  
Sam looks as sullen as he was at fifteen and in his pubertal I-hate-everyone-emo-boy stage. Sam still defaults back to that mode sometimes. A _lot_ , lately.  
  
\--  
  
“So, we know whatever the hell these things are, they like meat; maybe we better—”  
  
A rough hand around his nape brings him up short. Dean stills and Dad shakes him a bit. “What the hell are you doing?”  
  
Dean swallows, eyes darting left and right. “Uh, thought I was discussing our action plan. Sir.”  
  
“Negative ghost-rider.” Dad lets Dean go, stepping in front of him to look him in the eye. He doesn’t look angry exactly, confused more like. Just stares at Dean a few moments then adjusts his rifle on his shoulder. “Get back in the car. I’m handling this one alone.”  
  
“What?! What did—”  
  
“Dean, go. God, what’re you fuckin’ thinkin’—being out here like this? Get your ass back to the truck and _stay_ there till I clean this mess up. Move it. That’s an order.”  
  
“Roger that,” Dean says, about-facing.  
  
His head is filled with racing thoughts on the trip back to where Dad parked. What’d he miss? _Must’ve been something pretty big_ , Dean thinks. _Being out here like this_ —being out here like _what?_ Dean’s carrying a rifle too. Got proper clothes. Isn’t sick.  
  
Dean gets in the truck and tucks his rifle into the footwell, barrel down and letting it poke up through his legs. His own big dick. Dean smirks and pulls his phone out, but he’s getting one spotty bar at best.  
  
 _Dad benched me_ , he taps to Sam, and miraculously it seems to go through.  
  
His phone dings moments later. Dean has a warm feeling when he thinks about Sam hovering over his phone.  
  
 _What for_?  
  
 _Don’t know, have to wait till he comes back. But he said.. idk, he made it sound like I was sick or somethin_.  
  
The ding doesn’t come so quick this time. In fact, five minutes pass and Dean thinks his service’s cut out for good, but a chime fills the car when he’s about to put his phone away.  
  
Sam’s text just says: _That’s weird_.  
  
Dean rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother replying. He sighs and leans back, eyes surveying the surroundings. Not much to speak of, just trees and bushes and squirrels chittering angrily somewhere on the left. Dean looks out the window for the two squawking rodents, but can’t make them out in the evening light.  
  
He waits out an hour, then makes the mistake of giving his eyes a moment’s rest. Only seems like a fleeting moment of dark till he’s aware again and Dad’s voice is in his ears. Dean licks his lips and opens his eyes, sees it’s pitch black outside.  
  
“Sorry,” he says past a yawn, looks over at Dad.  
  
“S’all right,” Dad says, sounding a bit hesitant, if concerned. The way he’s looking at Dean then makes Dean stare back, wondering what the hell he did to put that expression on Dad’s face when before it seemed he’d been irritated by Dean.  
  
Inexplicably, Dad says, “We’re gonna get you home so you can pass out on something comfier.”  
  
Dean keeps on staring as he starts his truck. “Christo,” he mutters under his breath, and nope. Not possessed.  
  
“You shoulda told me, Dean,” Dad says when they’re back on the road, and his voice is a little firmer.  
  
Dean straightens up in his seat. He chews his words before carefully saying, “I would’ve, if I knew what I had to tell.”  
  
“You don’t—” Dad cuts his eyes to him then away. “Didn’t Sam tell you? If I can smell it, he should be able to. It’s not somethin’ an alpha can miss.”  
  
“He hasn’t said anything. So, what is it?”  
  
“Well, since I’m breaking the news, I’ll give it to you straight: you’re pregnant.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Pregnant, Deano.” And Dad takes a hand off the wheel to pat Dean’s knee. He chuckles softly when Dean just blinks and blinks. “Maybe I shoulda sugarcoated it a little.”  
  
Dean finds his phone, fallen down in the footwell, and almost cracks the screen with the force of thumb. _Wait till I get home_ he taps out to Sam.  
  
Sam doesn’t reply.  
  
\--  
  
Sam is in the bathroom brushing his teeth when Dean stomps into their room. He flies over to his brother and furiously yanks on his arm to turn him, then shoves Sam back into the shower curtain. “Asshole!”  
  
“Dean,” Sam gurgles, white foam spilling over his chin, toothbrush aimed like a weapon, other hand showing his palm. “Dean, I—”  
  
“ _Asshole_!” Dean shoves again. Sam manages to save himself from falling ass over teakettle into the bathtub by gripping the towel holder.  
  
Dean clenches his fists and teeth, holding himself back (barely) from wailing on Sam. He does smack Sam’s brandished toothbrush to the side. It lands in the toilet.  
  
Sam says something unintelligible, toothpaste all around his mouth. He makes another noise and just spits it all over the floor and Dean’s boots. _Fucking slob_ , Dean thinks, and the world seesaws a little when he realizes this _fucking slob_ is the future father of his kid. Oh God.  
  
“Calm down, Dean. It’s not good for you to get all worked up.”  
  
Dean’s _look_ is enough to make Sam recoil. Dean jabs his index finger into his sternum. “You want an ass whooping? Huh?”  
  
“No,” Sam decides.  
  
“I got every right to be worked up. How long’ve you known, huh?”  
  
Sam stands straight. Dean raises his chin to keep the full force of his glower on him.  
  
“It doesn’t matter.” He moves past Dean into their room.  
  
“Doesn’t matter?!” Dean slaps the back of his head.  
  
Sam turns around and spreads his arms. “You would’ve been just as pissed, so hell yeah I didn’t tell you. You were gonna figure it out anyway.”  
  
“Dad told me, fucking _Dad_ told me ‘cause you were too much of a pussy to sack up. How’s that make you feel?”  
  
Sam shrugs. “I feel like it doesn’t matter. Seriously Dean, what do you want me to do? I thought you were taking something.”  
  
“I thought you were smart enough to not take chances. You could’ve at least done me a favor by putting on a rubber instead of charging on in and renovating the place.”  
  
“I wasn’t thinking.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean scoffs. “Do you ever?”  
  
“C’mon Dean.” Sam reaches for him. Dean bats, then shoves as a hot lick of real, red rage bathes him.  
  
“What are we gonna fuckin’ do!” Dean shouts. “We can’t have a fuckin’ kid! Damn it, Sam! Goddamn it!” Dean pushes him, and Sam stumbles backwards out of the doorway, into the hallway, and right into their father.  
  
“What’s going on here?” Dad asks, setting Sam vertical. “What’re you boys fighting about now?”  
  
“Sam’s an asshole,” Dean growls, keeping his eyes locked on his brother.  
  
“Sam, you shouldn’t be aggravating your brother. He needs some sleep.”  
  
 _Holy shit_ , Dad’s taking his side. Dean sets his shoulders and smiles triumphantly. Sam glares, sullen expression making him look more eight than eighteen.  
  
“He was the one bothering me,” Sam says.  
  
“‘Cause it’s _your_ fault, Sam!”  
  
“Dean,” Dad cuts in, “what’s his fault?”  
  
Dean opens his mouth and Sam’s eyes widen. “He knocked me up!”  
  
Sam’s chest is starting to heave. “Dean—”  
  
“Sam—”  
  
“Dad—”  
  
“That’s enough!” Dad barks. “Shut up!” He comes to stand in front of them both and looks between them. “Jesus Christ.” Rubs his forehead. “Dean, let me hear that again.”  
  
“Sam knocked me up.”  
  
“Okay. Sam is that true?”  
  
“Yes it is, sir.”  
  
“So, you two.” Dad waves two fingers between them. He lets out an explosive breath and slumps. “Oh Christ. How long’s this been going on?”  
  
“‘Bout a year,” Dean admits, glancing at Sam, whose expression is still and sharp.  
  
“Knew I should’ve put a stop to that sharing a bed business,” Dad grumbles. He sighs and shakes his head. “Look, I know how it is. A and O, and you’ve always been close. Bound to happen. But don’t tell me I raised up two boys and neither of ‘em knows what a rubber is.”  
  
“Yeah, Sam shoulda wore one,” Dean mutters.  
  
“All right, don’t blame it all on him. He’s younger than you. But you should know better, Dean.”  
  
“He was pressurin’ me,” Dean says. “Went too fast for me to say anything.” And boy, a condom had been the last thing on Dean’s mind when Sam rubbed his footlong up against his ass.  
  
“I thought he was on the pill,” Sam defends.  
  
“Yeah, well you know what assuming does. Dean, why don’t you get into bed, Sam and I need to have a talk.”  
  
“Gladly.” Dean smirks as Dad all but stiff-arms Sam out of the room. Sam passes a mean look over his shoulder before Dean shuts the door on his bitchy face.  
  
\--  
  
Being pregnant isn’t all that bad. It’s the best excuse Dean’s ever had as to why he can’t go down and get the food himself you have to go get it for me, Sammy; I’m pregnant; wash my clothes, Sammy; my feet hurt; you’ll have to mow the lawn today, my back’s _killing_ me.  
  
All that’s true, if a little milked for Dean’s benefit. He lives for that run thin, pissy expression on Sam’s face. That’s the only argument he puts up. Whatever talk Dad gave him must’ve put the fear of, well, _Dad_ in him.  
  
And Dad, Dad’s almost overwhelming. He’s only taking on a couple hunts a month, so he’s home a helluva lot more. He asks Dean about cravings—if he has any; whether he has a flavor preference for ice cream; asks if Dean has felt the baby kick yet; if Dean has thought of any names?  
  
Dean jokingly tells him _John_ and he swears his father’s eyes glisten.  
  
He doesn’t miss the glares Sam aims their way. Sam’s gotten to touch his belly only twice, and one time was when Dean was too groggy to protest. Otherwise Dean sleeps on his side of their bed and leaves a big empty space between them.  
  
Dad’s acting like he did before Mom died, and Dean’s not letting Sam blow away that old friendly ghost. Dean’s missed it.  
  
“Your mom loved these,” Dad says, thumbs pressing hard and good into the heel of Dean’s foot.  
  
Who knew one day Dean’d be here, belly as big as a watermelon and his feet in his father’s lap. Dean sure didn’t.  
  
“‘Specially with Sam. That kid was huge. We thought she’d just pop before May came around.” Dad presses into Dean’s big toe and it cracks. Dean’s lips twitch at the satisfying sound and he spreads his toes, the ache in his foot nonexistent now.  
  
This is _the life_.  
  
Dad moves to the other one and says, “Look so much like her.”  
  
Dean almost doesn’t hear him. He opens his eyes and meets his father’s. “Not a bad thing,” John adds, looking back down to the foot he’s working. “I’m happy you took after Mary. Like a little of her is still with us.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says quietly. He sighs in pleasure when Dad eases his fingers up the arch of his foot and the stiffness leaves just like that.  
  
“Footrubs? _Seriously_?” Sam asks when Dean comes outside to see the progress Sam’s made on the lawn.  
  
Dean curls his bare toes into the sun-warmed deck. “Seriously. Were you watching through the window, you dirty perv? That why you only got half the yard done?”  
  
“I’m taking a break.”  
  
“On whose authority?” Dean drops down next to him. Sam stinks of sweat and his face is ruddy.  
  
“My back’s,” Sam says, unslouching to let Dean hear the series of pops and cricks.  
  
“You poor baby,” Dean says. “Baby need some lemonade?”  
  
“That’d be nice.” Sam leans back on his hands, and lets his head tip skyward, wet strands of hair unsticking from his face.  
  
Dean’s eyes trail his profile, his torso, his spread legs. Between them, he can see the bulge of Sam’s dick along the thigh of his light blue jeans and his spit dries in his mouth.  
  
Yeah, another side effect of having a pea in the pod. He’s horny as hell. Dean’s fingers twitch, and everything be damned he wants to get in Sam’s lap and take a ride on that behemoth.  
  
“What’re you doing?”  
  
Shit, Sam caught him. Dean licks his lips and rips his eyes away from the basilisk. “Nothin’,” he answers. He laboriously gets to his feet. “Get the rest of the lawn done.”  
  
Dean goes back in and heads to the bathroom. _Fuck him for being so hot_ , Dean thinks as he wraps a hand around his cock and starts furiously working it. _Fuck him with his own mutant dick_.  
  
\--  
  
“Are you... jacking off?”  
  
Dean stills, and surreptitiously slides his hand out of his underwear. Fuck, he thought he was being quiet. He keeps his eyes closed and lets his breathing go even and deep.  
  
Sam’s a persistent little asshole though. Dean feels the bed move and then Sam flicks his finger against his shoulder like the snap of a mousetrap and Dean can’t help his flinch. “Stop it, weirdo,” Dean grunts.  
  
Sam laughs breathlessly. “You _were_ jacking off! Wow.”  
  
“Yeah, say you’re sorry for interrupting. Totally killed my boner.” Dean jerks the covers over himself, leaving Sam only a sad third of them.  
  
“You’re being pathetic.” Dean feels the heat of him up against his back and thinks about rubbing his ass back into Sam’s crotch enough to get him hard and then he’ll stop so they both spend the night with blue balls.  
  
“You’re pathetic,” Dean counters.  
  
“ _You_ are, since I’m not even a foot away from you and you’d rather do the five finger shuffle.” Breath moistening Dean’s nape, Sam slides his hand over Dean’s hip, below the swell of his belly and into his shorts.  
  
Dean doesn’t stop him, because his flagging erection quickly perks right back up in the warm squeeze of Sam’s palm.  
  
Sam matches his, their, breathing with his strokes. Kisses Dean’s neck and shoulder, sloppier by the second. Moves his hand lower and rolls Dean’s sac around until Dean’s hips urge into the sensation. When Sam’s touch surrounds his dripping cock again Dean rolls his hips back. Sam grunts, then his hand is gone, grabbing Dean’s hip instead and keeping them pressed together.  
  
Dean swallows, feeling the long stiffness of Sam’s cock against his ass. Sam grinds, open mouth stuck to the sweep of Dean’s shoulder, sucking, biting. He moves again and his weight increases on Dean’s back, he’s pushing Dean forward and under—  
  
“No.”  
  
And then he’s gone.  
  
Dean twists his neck and sees his brother spread-eagle, panting at the ceiling. The red glow of his eyes two embers in his face. “Sorry,” he lisps past his fangs. “S’hard to control. I smell you and I want to.” He makes a rough, carnal sound that tells it all to Dean. “It’s. The baby makes it so much worse. I’ve been trying not to breathe you in.”  
  
Dean turns onto his other side so he can look at Sam fully. Sam looks at him too. “Sorry. Again. Don’t know if I told you that before. But I shoulda used protection.” Sam squeezes his eyes shut. “Well what I did was pretty bad in the first place so I guess—”  
  
“Sammy, I’m way too horny for this shit.” Dean drags himself through the space between them and slings a leg over Sam’s hips. Looking down at him, Dean rubs his dick over Sam’s, testing if this would be enough to get him there, and _oh yeah_.  
  
“Shit.” Sam’s hands flail at him, but since there’s no good place to put them but Dean’s belly, they drop and clench in the sheets. His face goes real tight for several moments, hips hitching under Dean’s weight.  
  
“That was quick,” Dean says, moving slow over Sam’s twitching cock.  
  
“S’been awhile,” Sam breathes. “Ah. _Ha_.” He grimaces, smiles, and that overstimulated face makes Dean lurch hard and come.  
  
Dean doesn’t turn his back to him that night.  
  
\--  
  
 _I did it before_ , Dean finds himself thinking. He’s brushing his teeth and Sam’s standing mostly asleep in front of the toilet, morning wizz going on and on. Dean doesn’t look, but he’s thinking about _it_. _It’s possible. Hurt like hell but it didn’t break my ass or something_.  
  
Dean scrubs the brush over his back molars and nods, agreeing with himself. _I bet if I try it slow, it wouldn’t be too bad. Last time Sam just forced it in there. That’s why it felt so horrible_.  
  
Horny at six AM. Apparently fucking nuts too, since Dean knows logically it hurt because the thing’s the size of a nuclear weapon.  
  
“Up early to make me breakfast Sammy?” Dean asks after he’s rinsed and Sam’s shuffling back into their room.  
  
Sam grumbles something inarticulate.  
  
Dean heads downstairs a while later to find a plate of toaster waffles going cold in a puddle of syrup. Sam is asleep on the couch and Dad says Dean’s running the poor kid ragged while he pushes at Sam’s shoulder in order to find the remote.  
  
Dean’s tired too. Sam’s baby kicks and kicks and tosses itself around in Dean like it’s fed up with the world already. Dean doesn’t get a lot of sleep.  
  
And really, Sam isn’t getting too run down. His hand creeps onto Dean’s belly one night, and his breath leaks heat on Dean’s skin. “Don’t,” Dean says, weak, getting weaker.  
  
“How many times you rub one out today?”  
  
“Sam...”  
  
“How many times?”  
  
“Couple.”  
  
“Liar.” Sam nips his ear. “I hear you. You think you’re so quiet. Six. Six times you ran into the bathroom and jerked off. Last night,” Sam’s hand moves under the waistband of his boxers, “you fingered yourself. Makes a different sound.”  
  
“Nothing gets past you,” Dean says blithely, voice even. Wants to shake, he wants to shake, at the curl of Sam’s fingers around his cock. He’s so hard; body oversensitized to the point where his nerves must be bare, poking up through. Sam’s baby stretching his skin too thin. Scent of Sam’s own arousal making it so much worse.  
  
Sam jacks him until his toes curl under the covers, and just when Dean’s starting to feel his orgasm crest, Sam moves away. Dean groans. “Fuck, please, please.”  
  
“S’okay,” Sam whispers as he brings Dean onto his back, and his lips are right there, his tongue is filling Dean’s mouth. Dean squirms, hips raising for friction, but Sam’s too high over him. Dean bites Sam’s lips, his tongue, digs his fingernails into Sam’s arms.  
  
Anger lights him up.  
  
“Asshole,” he growls when his mouth is free. “Fuckin’ dick. This is all your fault.” There’s a rising urge to cry that Dean’s trying to push down. Fuck, his moods are out of whack and that’s Sam’s fault too.  
  
Sam burrows his face into his neck, swish of his tongue and the sad, sparse stubble he’s able to grow rasping on Dean’s skin, making Dean want him, and seriously, fuck Sam for everything.  
  
“Knotbrain,” Dean hisses at him, adamantly doesn’t feel guilty. There are much worse things he could call Sam, after all.  
  
“Bitchboy,” Sam retorts, and Dean almost rips his hair out. Sam catches his wrists and pins them. “Stop it,” he says in Dean’s throat, Dean spitting a line of slurs and struggling.  
  
“Fuck you!”  
  
“Stop, Dean.” Sam’s voice is baser, vibrating, alpha. Tells Dean’s body to relax even as rage flares. Sam sucks his Adam’s apple, moves down between his collar bones. When he lets Dean’s wrists go, Dean’s hands fly into his hair and hold too tight.  
  
Sam ignores his sore nipples and the swell of his belly and pulls his waistband down under his balls, catching Dean’s cock in his mouth as it jumps free. Dean closes his eyes, mouth open to pant. He’s trembling all over, doesn’t know from what.  
  
Sam’s mouth is too gentle on him; Dean jerks his hips and tries to thrust. Sam just pins them down, letting the underside of Dean’s cock ride his tongue on the way up. Dean breaks a sweat, long groan in his throat.  
  
Sam’s pulling his boxers off him all the way, keeping Dean’s dick in his mouth all the while. Dean helps him, and as soon as he has one ankle free, he spreads his legs around Sam’s shoulders, plants his feet.  
  
And then his dick is cold.  
  
“Sam!”  
  
Sam’s kissing his inner thighs and Dean’s gonna go fucking _nuts_. He darts down to finish himself off but Sam catches his wrist. “Wait,” he says, “just wait.” And his kisses move into the crease of Dean’s groin. He licks the seam of his balls and it feels like an apology.  
  
“What are...” Because Sam’s nosing under his sac, where he’s wet, and he’s pushing the back of Dean’s thigh, tilting his ass up a little and Christ is he actually gonna—  
  
Hot shock of Sam’s tongue _there_ and Dean gasps, throwing his arms out and gripping the sheets for life so dear. “Wha—uh, that’s, whoa—”  
  
Sam’s licking his slick up, tongue bathing Dean’s hole in warmth, brushing against it firmly. Dean feels himself sink into the bed, all his muscles turning to water. Sam makes a delicate noise and Dean feels the strange-but-awesome suction when Sam kisses his opening, sucks on the rim. Kiss so dirty it makes Dean blush and want to get away.  
  
Sam’s tongue starts cleaning up his wetness again, more intense this time, rougher. Dean realizes he’s trying to jab his tongue _inside_ and almost protests because that has to be too fucking much, that might make Dean scream.  
  
He throws his forearm over his mouth and bites into the flesh to keep himself quiet, feet churning the sheets. He feels his hole relax and soften under the stimulation and at the first lick inside him Dean jumps, his arm taking the high tones of his shocked yelp.  
  
Weird but good, so good. Hot, like a little lick of flame inside him. Sam makes a hungry sound, noise like he really wants to _devour_ Dean, and Dean feels the ridges of his teeth scrape around where he’s forcing his tongue in. All of it, to the root, Dean slobbering on his own arm and the pressure of tears building in his eyes and he explodes, convulses and scorching arcs of his own come rain on his chest and face.  
  
Dean slips his arm away to catch drops in his open mouth like burning snowflakes.  
  
His eyes might be stuck in the back of his head. He could definitely be permanently glitched, pleasure too damn much for his small human brain to comprehend. He slips in and out, muttering nonsense he hopes Sam understands because his brother deserves at least a thank you for that. A pat on the back. Dean tries to raise a hand but it doesn’t respond and the rest of him feels just as dead.  
  
He wakes up with his face buried in Sam’s chest, Sam’s arm heavy over his side, breathing soft in Dean’s hair. Dean doesn’t rush out of his arms, doesn’t get up, doesn’t shake Sam awake to make him breakfast, goddamn it. He turns his face into Sam’s scent and goes back to sleep.  
  
\--  
  
“You think if we have a son his dick’ll be as huge as yours?” Dean asks, mowing down on a bowl of ice cream. Sprinkles, chocolate and caramel syrup, crumbled up Oreos and peanut butter makes it look a far cry from its original flavor (“Moose Tracks,” Dean’s told Dad and Sam, “nothing else.”) but at least he’s refraining from going all out glutton and spooning from the carton. He maintains that last visage of dignity.  
  
“We could probably carry him around by that thing,” Dean muses.  
  
“ _Jesus_ , Dean. I think that’d be child abuse. And I doubt seriously that a baby’s gonna have _anything_ big going on.” Sam rolls his eyes.  
  
“What if, when he’s coming out, he gets stuck and the doctor has to pull him out by the dick?”  
  
“You’re horrible.”  
  
Dean shovels more of his dairy monstrosity into his mouth. “Seriously, you got blessed by something. Listen, I bet it was that Eros dude. Maybe we could hunt him down and get you a normal dick, huh?”  
  
“Sounds great,” Sam says, flat.  
  
He shouldn’t be offended, because there’s a growing disconnect between what Dean says and what he thinks, and he’s starting to think Sam’s dick is pretty special. Dean’s almost proud of it. He almost wants to sit down on it, because all he is lately is a horny, masochistic motherfucker.  
  
 _Why not give it another shot_ , Dean thinks insanely.  
  
He lets Sam back into his bubble, little by little. Allows him long kisses and belly touches, allows Sam’s fingers in his ass; two, three. Sam loses his surly demeanor and doesn’t even have a jealous look for Dad whenever he rubs the aches out of Dean’s feet or restocks the Moose Tracks supply before Sam can.  
  
“You know Dean, I’m sorry about what I did,” Sam says softly as explosions from _Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen_ flash over them in the dark of the living room. Dean and him are camped out on the floor in a fortress of pillows and cushions while God rolls strike after strike in the sky. Sam’s too old to be afraid of thunderstorms, but Dean’s never said that to his face.  
  
“I was being an asshole about the whole thing. I shouldn’t’ve pressured you for something you weren’t ready for. Something you didn’t want.”  
  
Dean sighs. “We’ve established this Sam. Haven’t we?” Dean peeks at him. “Wasn’t ready, sure. But I did want.” _Still want_. “As daunting as your dick is.”  
  
Sam goes tense at a clap of thunder, then whispers after, “And I got you pregnant.”  
  
“Obviously,” Dean chuckles. He shoves at Sam’s shoulder. “Dude, quit it. Like we weren’t gonna have kids eventually anyway. I’m not mad about it.”  
  
“Well, it should’ve been different.”  
  
Dean can’t argue there but, “Man, before we’re mates, we’re brothers. You get that right? Yeah, you fucked up, you were a grade-A douche canoe. Still are, sometimes—” Sam’s mouth twitches, “—but what do you want me to do? Hate you for it? That’s not in me. Clean slate. We’re about to be parents, for chrissakes. I mean, we gotta pull it together.”  
  
Sam reaches out and touches his face, thumbing over the faint scar under Dean’s eye. “You’re right. It’s just.” Sam touches the ones over his lip like he can rub them away. “I figured it out. You never... with those alphas. I was the first, the one you gave it up to.”  
  
Dean inhales and looks back at the TV.  
  
“You were a damn _virgin_ , and I went and tore you up.”  
  
“You didn’t know that.”  
  
“Yeah, but I still feel fucking awful. Wish I could go back and kick my own ass.” Sam’s hand drops away. “I see what he was talking about now—Mr. Melcher. I thought I wasn’t like that, but I am.”  
  
He molds their sides together on another rumble of thunder, and really, what Sam needs to work on most is his need to cling.  
  
Dean feels the baby turn, sees it through the shirt stretched over his stomach.  
  
“Oh,” Sam says, reaching down for the bump. Dean can’t keep the grin off his face as he watches Sam’s in the TV glow, the spread of his lips and the dimples that Dean hopes their kid inherits.  
  
“Well something good came out of it all,” Dean says quietly. “We got the baby, and we don’t gotta go behind Dad’s back anymore.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
The credits start rolling and Dean bites his inner lip flesh. He worries it a couple minutes, puts his hand on top of Sam’s. “Maybe we could, uh, if I can have control, we could try it again.”  
  
“Wouldn’t that bother the baby?” Sam asks at length.  
  
“That’s why you let me do it, so we can go slow. Not just battering your way in.”  
  
\--  
  
Dean just pours the lube over Sam’s cock.  
  
“Dude, the whole bottle, really?” Sam asks, one eye squeezed shut in discomfort. “Don’t see why we need to use it in the first place.”  
  
“‘Cause that little bit my ass makes is definitely not enough for something like this,” Dean replies, tipping the bottle upside down to let the last threads of lubricant spill over Sam’s erection, leaving it looking polished.  
  
“We could play slip n’ slide on it now.” Sam wipes away the lube pooled in his hip furrows. It’s dripping onto the bed and there’s gonna be a big wet spot there when Sam moves, but Dean’s going for safe instead of sorry. He tosses away the empty bottle and climbs onto Sam, setting his knees on either side of Sam’s waist. He tosses his amulet over his shoulder and stays in that position, on his hands and knees over his brother.  
  
“I’m nuts,” Dean mutters, looking down at Sam.  
  
“We stretched you out pretty good,” Sam offers, soothing his hands over Dean’s flanks. “But like I said, we don’t have to do this.”  
  
“I wanna, Sam. These fucking hormones, man. Gonna go off the wall if I don’t...” Dean leans back a little, and Sam’s long cock slips on his thigh, leaving a snail trail of cool lubricant. Dean shivers and hangs his head between his shoulders. “Don’t move at all ‘less I tell you, all right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says, voice croaky as they both breathe quick in anticipation. “Won’t. Promise.”  
  
Dean tilts back until he’s on his haunches and reaches between his thighs to get Sam’s dick in position, moving the meaty head under his balls and over where he’s needy to be filled.  
  
Dean forces himself to relax, do what the internet told him and imagine himself opening up like some precious flower, or you know, an asshole trying to accept a dick that’s way too big for it.  
  
Dean nods. He licks his lips and tries to psych himself up.  
  
“Guess we’re going for it. Three, two, one—here we go. I got this. Definitely got it. I’m going for it. Mm-hm. Right now. Right fuckin’ _now_.” He lets his hips drop a little and feels his body give around the head, spreading, accommodating, that’s good, he’s a motherfucking flower in bloom—  
  
A sting flares. Dean hisses and holds, fixing his eyes to Sam’s belly button while he waits it out. Navel-gazing. Dean catches himself before he can laugh. God knows what that would cause his ass to do.  
  
“You good—”  
  
“Sam, just be quiet huh? Said I got this.” The pain lessens after a minute, and Dean sinks a bit more, fighting every urge to clench down on the intrusion. He does that, this is all over. He lets Sam’s dick go and braces both his hands on the bed.  
  
Another inch, Dean rests. Sam’s touching his belly, his nipples, trying to distract him (like Dean could miss the missile he’s letting take off in his ass) and his forehead is wrinkled, temples glistening.  
  
“You’re enormous,” Dean informs him on a breath. He takes in some more, listening to the slick sound. Doesn’t hurt a tenth as much as it did before, but he still feels the stretch, the struggle.  
  
“All over,” Dean wheezes, peeling one of Sam’s huge hands off his belly, looking for solidarity as he grips tight. “Jesus. _Fuck_ , Sam.”  
  
It’s a helluva lotta dick. And Dean takes it all in by force of will and a cocktail of hormones pumping in his blood, same ones that made him deranged enough to start this. Seated, he lets out a relieved, too-full grunt. Every goddamn inch is inside him and that’s a fucking victory.  
  
“Conquered the monster,” he says. Charmed the snake. On top of the world and the top of the world is Sam’s freak cock.  
  
Dean needs a medal pinned right on his ass.  
  
“‘Member what I said Sammy? No moving.”  
  
“I know,” Sam mumbles, face screwed up. Dean leans down to kiss his blanching lips. He puts Sam’s hand on his dick and his hips roll as Sam wraps his long fingers around it.  
  
“Okay.” Dean draws himself up slow, just a little, and drops back down. His breath hitches, because fuck this feels good, pressure on his sweet spot and he’s full and the smell in the air; Sam’s hot pheromones mixed with the clean scent of artificial lubricant and the primal scent of his sexscent and sweat. _Good, good, good_.  
  
Dean gets a rhythm going, nothing too fast and he can’t properly bounce on the thing yet but that’s definitely something he can work for. Sam jerks Dean’s cock with the motion of his body, glassy eyes watching Dean’s face, mouth open and stupid with sex.  
  
Dean drops forward again to kiss him, hungry for his breath and the slide of his tongue. Dean pushes Sam’s hair out of his face and whispers, “You wanna knot me, Sammy?” into his brother’s cheek.  
  
“Fuck. _Dean_.”  
  
Dean smirks, rising up. “Could do it, _ah_. I want, I want it bad.” That’ll hurt for sure, but Dean needs it even if he has to scream. Dean’s hindbrain saying knot, knot, wanna tie want _alpha_. It’s never been like this and the intensity is raw, inescapable. Dean can’t keep up.  
  
He concentrates on the thickness forming at the base of Sam’s cock, anchors himself on Sam’s ribs as he grinds over his lap. Sam gasps and the hand not jacking Dean’s dick flails and finds Dean’s upper arm. “Oh God, shit, I’m gonna, I’m, Dean, Dean—”  
  
“Yeah, c’mon,” Dean urges, losing any sense of coordination. He pulses his hips erratically, darts of pain starting as Sam’s knot blows up, and Dean doesn’t even think of stopping.  
  
“De—” Sam’s voice cuts out. His eyes roll back and he shudders violently. Dean gets in one last snap of his hips and explodes right with him.  
  
\--  
  
In the end, Dean has a girl.  
  
And then another girl, three years down the line when Sam’s legal to drink but still refuses to have anything but light, low-calorie muck.  
  
The house isn’t that big and it’s getting a little crowded. Convincing three-year-old Eva that they gotta move out of grandpa’s place gets them a lot of crying and begging, but Sam’s got his mind set on Stanford, and Dean thinks they really gotta get there before another kid just pops outta nowhere.  
  
“Can we get a doggy?” Eva asks Sam, sprawled in Dad’s lap and running her hands over his beard. Dean thinks she’s gonna cling to him as long as possible, smush her small hands and teary face against the back window, when they drive away. “Like Seus.”  
  
“ _Z_ eus,” Sam corrects lightly. “He’s cute huh? His owner’s kind of a—”  
  
“Butthole!” she shouts. “Seus is a nice doggy and—and I was petting him and he yelled at me!”  
  
“And what’d you say back?” Dean laughs, cutting his eyes to Sam. This kid definitely takes after him.  
  
Eva sits up in John’s lap and spreads her arms. She snaps her teeth and wolfs out. “I said: go ‘way, or I’ll eat you!”  
  
“Very ferocious,” Dad chuckles while Sam and Dean throw their heads back and howl in laughter. They wake up the newborn, Leanna, in the other room and she screams at them for it.  
  
“I’ll get her,” Dad sighs, moving Eva off him and getting up. Sam picks her up in his place and settles in the free spot.  
  
She touches Sam’s smooth cheeks and scowls. “Why doesn’t Daddy grow a beard?”  
  
“He does, he just shaves it all off ‘cause he’s evil,” Dean supplies.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Sam kisses her dark blond hair. “Daddy’s so evil he might get you a dog,” he sing-songs. Eva’s mouth falls open and she wriggles so she can look at him.  
  
“Gotta be a small one though, I don’t think they let Zeus-sized dogs in the apartment.”  
  
“A puppy?”  
  
“Yeah! Maybe a little yorkie puppy.” He smiles wide at her, excitement glimmering in his own eyes.  
  
Alphas and their dog obsession. Dean leaves them to gush over it and finds Dad in the makeshift room they have set up for Leanna.  
  
“Well she’s not crying but she’s not heading back to dreamland either,” Dad says, arms full of Leanna and her crib blanket.  
  
Dean accepts her into his arms and makes a funny face at her. She just blinks. Dean snickers.  
  
“Stubborn. Livin’ up to that Winchester name already?” He lifts her up and kisses her nose.  
  
“This the last one?” Dad asks, smiling with his eyes.  
  
“Until Sam gets rich.” Leanna waves an arm and catches two of his fingers. Dean raises his eyebrows at her. Babies are funny. Dean loves both his kids and Sam too, and he’s come to have a real camaraderie with the thing that lives in his pants.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  


  
~END~


End file.
